


Stars Can’t Shine Without Darkness

by blackberrysilk



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Follows the show for the most part, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Slow Burn, Vaun is a Born
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-09-06 10:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberrysilk/pseuds/blackberrysilk
Summary: You’ve lived a relatively easy and privileged life. When a new and deadly parasitic illness sweeps through the city, that fact remains true as you’re welcomed into the safety of the Stoneheart HQ; being Eldritch Palmer’s niece has its perks after all.But your uncle hasn’t been entirely honest with you—keeping secrets and keeping you ignorant to the reality of the horrors occurring in NYC—and as the truth of the plague comes to light, you’re thrust into the middle of a centuries-long battle that puts the fate of the entire human race in the balance.





	1. Chapter 1

I so look forward to regretting this. Even if I manage to get away with it, what are the odds I'll be able to do it again without getting caught? I've been lucky so far, and that's only because the other occupants in the room have been—blessedly—busy. 

Crouched behind the deceivingly soft and luxurious leather upholstery of the couch situated just so near the far back corner of my Great-Uncle Eldritch's penthouse office, my thumbs tap quickly across the screen of my phone, calibrating and updating some last-minute adjustments for a client eagerly awaiting their commission. It's much more challenging and takes more time and attentiveness to do without my laptop, or even my tablet, but seeing how this order wasn't meant to be completed and delivered until the end of the week—four whole days from now—I have little other choice but to make due with the tools I have on me. 

It was only about an hour ago I somehow managed to receive the request prompting sooner completion and delivery of the project, and while I could have explained the difficulty of doing so, what with the whole internet dropping off the deep-end and going dark across all of NYC, maybe even the entire state and beyond, the possibility of upsetting my first major client and ending my career before it can even begin unnerves me enough to at least try to meet their proposal. 

Shoulder slouched against the sleek dark fabric of the couch, my back is curled into a near-painful hunch to ensure that I'm entirely obscured; that my height doesn't give me away. I try to make myself small, undetectable, less likely to be seen and, ultimately, caught. 

While there's no certainty that I'll get into too much trouble if my little hiding spot is found out, it is almost guaranteed that there'll be unsavory repercussions if the secret passage is discovered. Again. That's how I got up here to begin with. It was my only option after having been denied legitimate access via elevator. For all intents and purposes, the penthouse floor is restricted to anyone other than those granted special clearance. Any intruders could be shot, if the band of nearby security guards equipped with handguns is any indication. 

So, I had to take the less conventional, but exceedingly more exciting, route. 

Just behind me, a few feet away, disguised as a three-by-four paneled ventilation shaft in the wall only inches from the floor, is the channel I've taken many times in my life as a kid to sneak back and forth from this office to the access stairwell meant for emergencies and, more often, repairs and renovations. As a child it was my personal hideout, the place I spent the most time while visiting the Stoneheart Group HQ with my mom. It's never exactly been a child-safe place, so it was seen as endearing and clever to have harmlessly found the quick passageway. Until I began to emerge at very inconvenient times, disrupting a few important meetings and discussions and even some,  ahem , more intimate affairs. One of which most notably appeared to have involved a lot more bare skin, writhing, and grunting than a nine-year-old me thought should be required in business matters. After that particular incident the tunnel was blocked off by some heavy piece of art I couldn't move on my own—a sculpture of some kind, I think—and I did in fact try to move it. Or, now that I think about it, that massive glowing fish tank near the other side of the room filled with gently wavering blue-green water and swarming with moving colors of aquatic life could have done the trick. I don't recall seeing it here before, and after basically being all but banned from the penthouse for years there are quite a few things that are unfamiliar and new. The floor is no longer carpeted (it was a deep red color with purple undertones, I remember; it was my favorite color for some time), instead replaced with some sort of veined marble tiles the color of the sea during a hurricane, and in the middle a huge circle a soft yellow with the Stoneheart Group logo in the center; the furniture is further from the middle of the room, as if Uncle Eldritch wants all who enter his penthouse to behold that one part of the floor. There's less art, not as evenly spaced around the room. Instead, aside from the two stone sculptures placed in front of the massive window taking up the entire north wall, the majority are smaller pieces that lie in a golden-wooded shelf across the room, displayed in tasteful rows, glossy and gleaming like little treasures. 

Really though, none of that matters so much when the real reason I'm here is to do work, that's all. In and out. Easy-peasy.  _Right. _

If only the damn page will load on my phone. Alerts of low connectivity keep popping up on the screen, displaying  Unable To Load Page , and,  No Wireless Network Found . Each time it asks me to try again I grow a little closer to just jumping up and barreling out from behind the furniture into the room in plain sight and placing myself inches from the router. 

Surely Uncle Eldritch would be surprised but ultimately forgiving if I explain my situation. A brief glimpse around the edge of the couch puts him and his new assistant, Coco Marchand, in view. She's a very pretty woman with big round eyes a soft peaceful blue and honey blonde hair cut to her clavicle. Two others stand among them, a man and a woman. I've managed to successfully tune them out until now; not much of what they discuss seems particularly interesting, but seeing them conversing so closely together piques my ears, and I catch the end of their conversation. 

"Well, that seems a possibility," the woman is saying, bobbing her head as she watches my uncle earnestly. 

Uncle Eldritch nods once in agreement, the other man adding, "I certainly think so." 

Whatever they're talking about is beyond me and none of my business; it sounds boring anyway since I missed a huge chunk of their discussion. My eyes lower to the unresponsive data on my phone.  _Maybe once the others leave I can ask for help..._

Though...appearing unannounced after inviting myself into Uncle Eldritch's office after entering via a restricted pathway right after he seems to be discussing something that could be important might result in less-than-pleased reactions. Still—I glare in heated exasperation at the idle phone struggling to connect—I’d prefer to get this done sooner rather than later. 

For such a high-end, tightly-secure, top-of-the-line corporate building, Stoneheart Group's wifi system  sucks . I've brought it up to my uncle on several occasions when I've visited, seeing how I need it to get work done, but the situation has remained the same since I first mentioned it nearly six months ago, when I started my new job as a freelance web designer. 

My fingers close tightly around my phone, squeezing until my hand shakes while the screen glares back at me, spinning the loading icon in a never-ending loop.  Fuck . Isn't it just my luck that the internet decides to die when it is meant to be the platform of my entire career, the medium for my work. I've hardly even begun, haven't had the chance to make a name for myself beyond what my connection to Eldritch Palmer provides. The first year is integral for a decent business to succeed. If I'm not competent enough to complete one job during a difficult time then what does that ultimately say about my capabilities?

The slow burn of lactic acid builds in my calves and thighs, making the muscles tremble and forcing me to lower onto my knees and shuffle around to angle myself more towards the corner. Cheek pressed into the back of the couch, I rapidly scroll back and forth across the touchscreen in a frustrated release of dissatisfaction, clicking the refresh button again and again, only to receive the same bland response of no connectivity. A low groan builds in my chest, an increasing pressure at the back of my throat, heating my cheeks until aggravated tears prick at my eyes. 

I might as well just ask Uncle Eldritch for help; I thought I could manage this small task easily on my own. Get in, get out, get paid. But nothing is easy, especially not recently. With the bizarre attacks occurring all over the city amidst a new rabid and highly contagious unidentified sickness, just about all everyday operations have come to a standstill. Even my own apartment building is off-limits for the time being. The only reason I'm here in Manhattan at all is because Uncle Eldritch insisted I stay until the danger dies down. My mother, being the worrisome woman she is, guilted me into agreeing, mainly for her sake, and for her peace of mind. Originally she wanted me to just come home and stay with her, but I shut that down quickly. So we compromised. It's not that I don't like it here in Stoneheart; it's nice, clean, safe, top-grade, and I don't have to worry about things like burglary or noisy neighbors. It's more...overbearing than anything, and I don't feel like I have much freedom to do what I would in my own home; I have to ask permission to do a lot of normal tasks. I mean, I got a little turned around trying to find the kitchen once and nearly got tackled by some jumpy beef-headed security guard. Guess that's what I get for staying in a multi-billion dollar company building. More protection and surveillance, less autonomy and general liberties.

"Oh, excuse me," Uncle Eldritch exclaims, not sounding at all miffed at being disturbed. Maybe they're done anyway.

New clipped footsteps enter the room from the other side, hurried by the sounds of it. "Sir, we have a Code One. I'm sorry for the disruption." A new voice, to the point. Urgent. I peek around the couch and spot two men dressed in sleek black suits. What's more, they're carrying; tell-tale lumps of their holsters rest at their sides. Security is here then. What for?

Instinctually I press further into my corner, edging towards the panel. Night is falling quickly, and through the faint reflections on the darkening glass that spans the entire wall behind me I spot the security guards approaching my uncle and company. 

I can't see his expression too well from where I sit, but an unspecific look of panic flickers across Uncle Eldritch's face for only a moment. Then he is suddenly in motion and begins to usher the others from the room, the man near him expressing, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Palmer," while the woman hastily adds, "You do good work, sir. God bless you." The two are taken to exit one way while my uncle is guided towards the far back of the office. Weirdly, no one uses the elevator. 

One of the security guards grasps Coco by the elbow, preparing to steer her in the direction of the others. "We must stick together," Uncle Eldritch insists, then he pauses when he notices she isn't beside him. He spins, objecting, "No!" And waves her towards him, offering his hand, which she takes gladly, eagerly. Perfectly comfortable with being hand-in-hand with her employer. Interesting. "She stays with me."

The security guards nod and back off. "Very well, sir." 

Both he and Coco are quickly urged through what must be another door further in the back corner, hidden perhaps beside the decorative shelf. Too far for me to see. For all I know there are several secret passages in here and I just happened to find an obscure one as a kid. Lucky me. 

Near silence falls upon the room in a blanket of stillness. A hush envelops me, and it takes a few moments of the steady quiet for me to realize I'm entirely alone in the massive office. Echoes of their abrupt departure have faded. Now it's just me and my noticeably increased breathing. Uncle Eldritch's guard said "Code One". While I'm not exactly up-to-date on all of the security measures and protocols, or the jargon that accompanies them, that sounds pretty serious. Maybe so serious that I should get out of here too. What if the entire building is going on lock-down? Will I be expected to be somewhere specific, like my room? What will happen when I'm not found there, or anywhere I normally am? 

Better not to find out if I can help it. 

Palms growing slick with sweat, I lower myself to my butt and scoot slowly towards the panel on the wall just behind me. My phone is dropped into the front pocket at the chest of my overalls, a warm weight that somehow reverberates and amplifies the heavy escalating thump of my heart. Along the inner frame of the vent panel is a sort of latch to hold it shut; my fingernails catch it, I give a light push, and the edge eases back easily with very little resistance or sound to reveal the metal pathway inside. 

_ Ding! _

Every muscle in my body jolts at the sound of the elevator coming to a stop, my chest clenching and squeezing, and I'm suddenly numb, staring as the doors glide open. 

_ Oh my God... _

Five—no. Six people dressed entirely in black stalk into the office. Riot gear, it looks like, sans the helmets. Each of them wear hoods over their heads instead, with one exception; a man with buzzed-cut hair and a light brown complexion wearing some sort of delivery or maintenance uniform. However, it's not their attire that renders me immobile for a shamefully long amount of time. No. 

Guns. 

Some big, some small. Size hardly matters though. They'll kill and maim just the same. Is that why they're here, whoever they are? To hurt someone?

"There's nobody here," the unhooded man says, hovering just at the edge of where I can manage see him, near the elevator. 

These people move into the middle of the room, circling, heads rolling as if taking in everything. Examining. Searching. For what? Or—maybe—rather, who? Why come to the penthouse if not for that with which it belongs? My uncle... Is he in danger? Several armed guards are with him, wherever they went. He should be safe. 

I can't say the same for myself. 

Another glimpse of the strangers makes a knot form in my belly, tight and nauseating. No one knows I'm here. Would they use me as bait if they found me? Lure out their target by threatening me? For some reason I can't imagine anyone putting themselves at risk for me. Not even family. Shit. 

I'm on my own here. 

The thought melts my frozen limbs like some flash-defrost and prompts me to move steadily into the passage, one excruciating inch at a time. Eyes trained in the direction of the intruders, I hold my breath until I'm about halfway in. I'll have to crawl backwards, but I'm not going to risk giving these people my back as a target. 

Jesus,  _target__?_ Would these people shoot at me? 

A hard shudder seizes me, leaving me cold in a way my oversized hoodie can't protect me from. Thank God I'm concealed behind the furniture, otherwise I'd be seen biting into the collar near the zipper of the jacket to cover the heavy clatter of my teeth. 

Ahead, a few of the invaders in the middle of the room suddenly push back their hoods. I swear my mind goes blank. There's just nothing. Emptiness. Lack of thought. Lack of feeling. Then, like a pinprick of light in an endless darkness, a single thread of wonder surfaces. 

_ What are these people? _

Pale, pale skin lies over inhuman features. Almost gray in its lack of color. Pointed ears. Most of them have scars, wide or long, some spanning the length of their faces. No hair whatsoever, not even eyebrows. The lines of their mouths stretch a little too far towards their cheeks to be normal, reaching further than their lips. I can't be too certain from where I lie, but their eyes don't seem right. Too dark. Not enough white. I can only pray those eyes don't find mine. There's an inkling in my mind that it would be akin to a predator locating its prey, zoning in and staring it down until it's reduced to nothing but a quivering mass of fearful meat. Too shocked at its detection. Too petrified to consider its own preservation under the ruthless gaze of a monster. 

I've heard of the atrocious attacks occurring throughout the city. It's why I'm staying here to begin with. People growing sick, disappearing, then reappearing only to have turned into something not yet identified. Unknown. Perhaps even deadly. People  have died. It's the whole reason for the quarantine on the city. From what I've read, apparently those who are infected act out in a feral way, almost like an animal with rabies. They attack, and not much else. 

But these... people ...here. They don't seem animalistic at all. They're composed, if that is the right word for it. Organized, I suppose. Perhaps they have no connection to the violent ongoings in the city at all. Though right now they're looking for something specific that apparently isn't here. They ignore the desks and shelves. The computers. The art. So they can't be thieves. Abductors, maybe, if they're looking for someone specific. Someone to question? Or kill? Assassins then? I cringe at the thought. Oh God, I hope not.

One of them edges too close to the parameter of the room for comfort, though they move opposite from me towards the door Uncle Eldritch and Coco disappeared into, examining it. For them to have fled through it, it has to be capable of withstanding the brunt of an attack, right?

"Break down the door." The voice is odd, sounding multilayered, a lower tone on top of another only a few pitches higher. It isn't a normal voice. Certainly isn’t a human voice. 

_Shit._

The rest move into action, following the order, and that's my cue to leave. There are several security guards with Uncle Eldritch, so he'll be fine, right? They're trained and have guns too. 

My ears are buzzing, and I really don't want to be caught up in a firefight. Despite my urge to throw myself backwards through the vent, I continue to move slowly, gradually, until I'm entirely submerged. 

The buzz somehow grows in my skull, thickening into a whir, then solidifying to a hum that nearly rattles my teeth. A sudden blinding blue dominates my vision, just outside the shaft. It's a wide stream of light, like a scanner of some kind, projected from the ceiling, moving steadily from in front of me and sweeping out towards the room. 

Someone screams, the sound akin to a swine squealing but so much worse, and the hair on the back of my neck attempts to flee down my spine. It's a horrible, agonizing sound, and it's entirely instinct that I scoot forward just enough to see the room again through the sliver of space between the couch and side table. A smell hits my nose, burning, but nothing like overcooked meat. More like when something raw is left far too long in the boiling sun. I have to shove my arm against my nose and mouth to stifle the cough that gags me. 

Another ungodly screech, and I notice wisps of smoke floating towards the ceiling. Two, then three, then four of the blue lights activate from each corner of the room, gliding inwards in a progressive movement. 

"UV lights!" The strange voice alerts urgently, spinning from the door to face the interior. 

Gun shots explode in the room, and I barely swallow back a shriek, ducking my head against my arms as I curl tighter around myself. A hesitant glance, and I realize I'm not being shot at. The guns aren't aimed at me at all, but the lights themselves. The intruders are attempting to take them out, but the source of the light appears to be small, just a slit to release the light through. Perhaps it isn't merely a light at all, and something more like a laser. Why else would it incite pain? Do UV lights have the potential to cause this kind of physical damage instantaneously? 

More excruciating screams, but the guns go off less and less as the intruders are corralled into the center of the room, falling over each other and clutching their exposed skin hissing smoke like cool water hitting a scalding skillet. I stare, confused and horrified. Coiled tight with tension. 

Is this really harming them, maybe killing them? Are they going to burn to death? That seems a rather barbaric way to kill someone. The only one seeming unaffected by the lights is the tan-skinned man, the only truly human-looking person among them. He watches his comrades from beyond the glare of the lights, looking uncertain and ready to bolt. 

The others are forced into a pack in the middle of the yellow circle in the floor, and more lights abruptly ignite above them, bright enough to make even my eyes water.

Then they fall. Just...drop. 

I can't see where they fall but I can still hear their shrieks, dragging like claws across my bones. And they continue until I feel the sound will be imprinted in my skull forever, an echoed recording of their tormented deaths. 

The man outside of the circle finally jerks out of whatever stupor that held him captive and is suddenly in motion, kneeling down at the edge of the pit to help. "Come on, give me your hand! Come on!" His arm reaches down, trying to grab at whoever will take his hand. "I'll shield you from the light, get up!"

Somehow, amongst the screams, I can make out someone within the dropped circle, crying out, "Go! I can't be saved!" The words are forced and dripping with pain, and somehow it hurts, deep in my chest it  hurts . I don't know these people, why they're here, what they want, or what they even  are , but this is no way to die. My God, it's...wrong. It's torture. 

"What are you talking about?!" The man shouts, frustrated, outraged. "Come on,  get up !" 

"We need you!" The other voice again, squeezed out of an anguished individual. A final grasp at hope. 

Something clogs in my throat, and somehow I'm scuttling out of the ventilation shaft, pushing to my feet when the other man stands, having given up. 

He backs away, shaking his head, proclaiming, "I'm outta here!" And he's gone, retreating to the elevator and disappearing the same way he came in, gun pointed just in case someone might try to pursue him. He just left the others. Just like that. 

But those trapped continue to wail as their bodies are incinerated, their lives reduced to smoke and ash. 

I look from the elevator to the hole in the floor, perfectly circular and glowing blazingly bright. I stumble the first few steps forward, legs tingling from the abrupt movement. The smell is so much worse the closer I get to the source, and I try to breathe through my mouth only for the stench to cling to the back of my tongue. I gulp hard and take small even breaths. The circle must have been some sort of platform—a trap?—and was activated to open when the intruders were within it. Five of them writhe on the floor of the seven-foot-drop, trying to protect their faces from the UV lights glaring onto them from all sides. 

The gasp I release is loud and appalled, deeply disturbed at the sight of these people clutching at faces burning, literally being set aflame, turning flesh into blisters and charred features.

What do I  do ?

How do I help them? There's lights above and lights below as well as every side, and their hoods won't do much good if their faces are still exposed. Fingers white-knuckled in my hoodie, I pause. It's only a second, then I'm moving again, flinging the jacket off and collapsing to my knees at the edge of the pit. 

"Put this over your faces!" I shout, dropping my hoodie on top of the nearest figures. Distantly, I realize my voice shakes, but it seems to reach some of them. "Pull your hoods up too, to protect both sides!" I gesture with my hands, though I know they likely can't see well in their desperation to stop the pain. 

Only two of them do as I ask, whipping around wildly to cover themselves. They share the hoodie, wrapping it across their faces while simultaneously yanking up their hoods. 

"Now give me your hands!" I reach down, squinting against the fulgent light. Tears blur my sight, and I'm not sure if they can even see my hand with the fabric covering their faces, so I stretch further, straining, reaching towards where I saw them last. 

The UV lights aren't just bright, they're hot. Sweat beads across my forehead and makes my hands clammy. The cries of suffering have died down, and only despaired whimpering remains. 

_Am I too late? _

I rub my free arm across my eyes to help clear my vision, only to damn nearly be yanked down as a gloved hand grabs my offered one. I'm jerked forward and just barely catch myself on the lip of the hole as one of those wrapped in my jacket uses my hand as an anchor and basically hauls themselves up and out. They tear off the hoodie and toss it onto the other figure before throwing themselves across the deadly crisscrossing lines of UV lights with a loud hiss, vanishing into the shadows of the room. I reach back down to pull out the other person, and they react in much the same way as the first, immediately retreating from the lights. I turn to usher the rest out, and my stomach tightens with pity at the sight that greets me. The three remaining individuals aren't moving, lying motionless. Not a single twitch. No more wailing. Dead. Their flesh continues to sizzle and smoke. Small flames still burn and flicker on the surface of their exposed skin, melting their features like wax, and will continue to do so, I imagine, until the lights are shut off. 

Unsure of what to do, I slowly rise to my feet, cautiously picking up the singed hoodie from the floor at the edge of the latticework of lights. Should I go down there and try to get them out anyway? What will happen to their bodies?

"Girl." That one word, though meant to be urgent and commanding, comes out rough, raw, and sounds painful just to have said. 

Nevertheless it still makes me flinch. I whip around to face the only two individuals I managed to save. Though "save" is putting it a bit strongly, I think. They're still in the penthouse. Still in the building, badly wounded. What good would helping them have done if they just end up dying by being shot? Who's to say they wouldn't just be pushed back into the deadly well of light? Because any moment now, my uncle and, more than likely, several gun-wielding security guards will burst through the doors they escaped through and rain bullets down on these intruders until they're just as immobile and lifeless as those in the hole. 

I don't give either of them a chance to say anything more before I'm striding to the ventilation shaft I left open, ducking down to prepare crawling through. "Follow me this way if you want to get out of here still in one piece," I instruct breathlessly. 

They both stare at me for a couple of tense seconds from beneath their hoods with their strange eyes, then glance at one another. Something unsaid out loud must pass between them, because they move together at once, carefully lowering to their hands and knees when they reach me.

I shift back to give them space, but also because I don't want either of them to touch me. "Crawl all the way to the end." I gesture into the opening. "I'm right behind you." 

They must be more desperate than I thought, because they immediately obey without question, one moving in, then the other following. I slide in last, turning to pull the panel shut behind me.

It's dark in here, staggeringly so after the assault of bright lights in the penthouse. Usually I use a flashlight, but somehow it feels wrong to turn on a light when these people just experienced an atrocity beneath some. Besides, I know where I'm going; it's pretty much just a straight shot through the metal shaft with a gradual decline. 

They don't make much noise when they move. I can just make out their outlines a bit head, but they're quiet. Even though they appear to be sluggish due to the pain they’ve endured, they don't stop. It isn't until we reach the grate at the end that they hesitate. Is there someone in the stairway? Have we already been caught? Maybe I should have taken the lead. Damn. Uncle Eldritch is going to be so pissed at me. Then again, shouldn't I be the angry one? He's murdered people tonight with his...contraption. A shudder wracks down my spine one vertebrae at a time. 

"I-is something wrong?" I whisper just in case there is someone out there who might hear. 

The one at the front cranes their head only slightly before pushing open the ventilation grate and sliding out. I release a breath as the next slides their way into the stairwell. I shuffle forward and ease onto the landing just outside the shaft. Turning, I close the metal cover carefully. 

My head remains lowered as I face the two strangers. In the dim lighting of the empty stairwell, I'm afraid of what I might see. There was a certain level of anonymity in the penthouse. The sky beyond the window had grown dark enough to shroud the room in shadow, save for a couple low-light lamps. I couldn't distinguish their faces much beyond what didn't seem human. 

_Who did I just save?_

Two pairs of heavy-duty military-grade boots stand just within my sight, close enough to the railing to be leaning on it for support. Their breathing sounds pained and labored, and I cringe. I didn't think this far ahead. There isn't much more I can do for them now. If they need medical assistance they'll need to find a hospital that is actually treating patients; one that treats...whatever they are. 

"Do you have a way out of here?" I swallow hard. "A, um, a car?" My hoodie is balled between my hands, ruined at this point. Several small holes are burned straight through the fabric. 

"A truck."

I flinch but glance up impulsively at the reply, and something in my chest stutters like I gulped down a pebble and it's bouncing along my ribs on it's way to land heavily in my stomach. 

Red eyes. Red irises hugging massive black pupils. They're staring at me. Taking me in, like they aren't sure what to make of me. I know I'm not much to look at, but I'm getting the impression one might get when being examined by someone considering making a purchase of a fine meat they've never experienced before. Those unnervingly scrutinizing eyes lie in pale faces a grayish shade sporting some gnarly burns already swelling into blisters. One is much more burnt than the other, but I'm certain both are in a massive amount of pain. Those are just the ones I can see. Who knows if their gear protected them from being burned beneath. 

My fingers move restlessly in the destroyed fabric of my hoodie. "Do you have somewhere to go? Someplace you're staying, because you should get those burns checked out and treated ASAP." 

They look at each other, once again giving me the impression they're saying things I can't hear with just a look. The one who spoke before nods once but won't meet my gaze. "We won't make it on our own." He says it in one breath, quickly, like he doesn't like admitting it. Or maybe it just hurts to speak. Either way the message is clear. 

They still need my help.

Yeah, I'm regretting sneaking into that damn office. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I’m posting another story while in the midst of writing my Stranger Things fics 😅
> 
> But, in my defense, I’ve been working on this fic since 2017 and it’s just been sitting in the notes on my phone. So, I figured I might as well put it up for you guys to enjoy. ✌🏽


	2. Chapter 2

I've never been fond of driving. Never even got my license. In a city as big as New York with a multitude of public transport methods, I never found the need to. Besides, being behind the wheel of a massive fast moving piece of metal on a single stretch of pavement with many other massive fast moving pieces of metal and trying to avoid a deadly collision between them at every moment never appealed to me. While everyone my age I knew was eager to get behind the wheel the moment they could, I always felt less enthusiastic; a rope of anxiety would coil around my stomach and tighten until I was nauseous. 

But as they say, do what scares you and you can conquer just about anything. Right. 

Tension sings through every muscle from the waist up as I stare diligently out the wide windshield, guided by the headlights beaming onto the road ahead, cutting through the complete darkness that fell not long ago. I'm steering the bulky delivery truck easily enough through the quiet streets, but it's eerie. Seems ominous in its wrongness. Usually there's near-constant noise—engines, car horns, shouts of by-passers, sirens—continuing all throughout the day and into the night, earning the city's epithet as one that never sleeps. Now there's not much to hear. If what Uncle Eldritch has said is true about this plague, then most people who aren't afflicted with it are hiding out during night hours. That's apparently when the infected wander around. Something about the sunlight inhibits them from roaming among the uninfected during the day. Every now and then I spot an individual or a small group, but even so, the streets seem almost deserted in its silence. Foreboding. Waiting, almost, like the last deeply held breath before taking the plunge into a freezing lake. Or falling from a great height. The entire city has hushed in anticipation. 

It's terrifying. What horrors will come out of a sleeping city that is known for being sleepless? 

Although, if anyone has seen what I have tonight, they won't be getting much sleep at all. 

I still don't know where we're going. I'm only told to turn when we're right at it. I've been driving nearly twenty minutes now, and the...person sitting in the passenger seat hasn't spoken other than to give directions. I'm not feeling very assured about the safety of this endeavor, even if it is my own fault for putting myself in this situation. If I grip the steering wheel any tighter I'll leave behind grooves the shape of my fingers. 

He has his black hood up, pulled up far enough to obscure most of his face. If it's for my benefit, I appreciate it though it's unnecessary. I've already seen their faces, have already concluded they're not normal, maybe not even human. And I'm still helping them. Why? Guilt, mostly; I didn't even try to help the others, maybe I could have saved them too. There's something else too, potent enough to catch my attention yet possessing a sense of danger that makes me wary. Curiosity. These strangers are odd, and in more than their appearance. They haven't hurt me, for one, although I suppose that could still be an option. 

I shift in my seat, discomfort crushing me from all sides like a very real pressure. Maybe they'll use me as bait, to lure my uncle out, and finish whatever job they intended to do to begin with at Stoneheart. Or is there a chance they don't even know who I am? While we are related, my direct family has never been in the spotlight that Uncle Eldritch's power and fortune has bestowed on him. Both a blessing and a curse, I guess. Today, I'm hoping it will keep me alive. 

I'm still not entirely sure how threatening these people really are. They don't even have their guns anymore; though who's to say they aren't packing loads of hidden weapons in their tactile uniforms. But if they were going to hurt me to draw my uncle out immediately, they would have done it by now, right? After all, they haven't shown me any ill-intent or tried to intimidate me. How soon might that change though? 

"You're shaking." The sudden words in the near-silent car makes me jump in my seat as if we went over a massive pothole. Thankfully I don't swerve us all into the nearest lamppost. Nope, just me and my nerves eating away at my forced calm. 

A quick glance to my right shows the passenger still facing forward, head tilted only slightly in my direction, giving a small glimpse of long pale nose and a sliver of high sharp cheekbone. I try to shrug but my body is wound so tight that my shoulders barely move. "Well, I'm pretty shaken," I reply, with no little amount of effort with how my throat squeezes constrictively around my larynx. 

A short nod from him. "Understandable." The voice is still bizarre, like two tones overlapping. Deep too, though that's not what's unsettling. Somehow the bass tone makes it less creepy and more ominous, almost mystifying. 

Another glance, and I nearly startle when he moves, adjusting in his seat carefully before stiffly settling back, as if his whole body is sore. Was more than his face impacted by the UV lights? The only skin that wasn't covered was his face, but maybe the light penetrated through the thick cloth and onto the skin underneath?

"Does it hurt?" I wonder timidly. It's such a stupid question to ask, but I can't take it back now. Besides, it's the polite thing to do, I guess, even to people who might murder you; maybe being nice will make them want to do it less. Or at least make them feel awful if they do. Unless they're psychopaths.

A small grunt is his response. What that means exactly, I don't know, but I'm too afraid to ask for an elaboration. But then, I don't have to. "It stings. A lot like a sunburn." He points to an upcoming split in the road. "Go left."

One hell of a sunburn , I think as I guide the truck in the indicated direction, onto a small street lined with huge blocky buildings. Many look worn and abandoned, cracked and rundown with shattered windows with glass sticking out like broken teeth and heaps of stone and brick crumbled on dead grass. There's even less light here, streetlights are more sparse, and the headlights slice through the dark. It seems colder, too, not in temperature but in a sensation deeper than my flesh, skittering along my bones like flurries. Cold enough to squeeze my lungs and constrain my breaths into tiny hard puffs. 

My voice sounds tight, breathy, rushed. "It looks more like an acid burn." I'm not sure it's the right thing to say, but the passenger only tilts his head, as if considering, before nodding in agreement after a few moments. "That would seem more accurate," he begins carefully, "but acid wouldn't cause this sort of damage to us."

I glance at him with furrowed brows, bewildered. "Us?" I repeat as if for clarification, but I continue, "People with a... a sun allergy?" It's the only conclusion I come up with on the spot, but I don't add the end of it:  _like the infected? _

He looks directly at me then, and I have to tear my eyes back forward, out the windshield, onto the cracked and uneven pavement of the road rolling beneath us. Actively avoiding the perplexing pull of his black and crimson gaze. I can feel it though, like a physical touch on my cheek, almost tingly; sitting too close to a blazing fire that's spitting sparks. Not painful, but any closer it very well might be. I'd turn my entire body away if I could, but I'm still driving, albeit much slower than before, barely crawling over 15 mph. 

"How much do you know about the outbreak?" He sounds slightly suspicious, and I want to balk at him in disbelief. If anyone has the right to hold any suspicion it's me, the girl driving two complete strangers alone in the middle of the night to destinations unknown. Strangers—whose species isn't entirely clear—who broke into my wealthy uncle's company building for reasons still unclear to me, made it to the top floor, only to be nearly killed by some UV death trap. To be frank, they  owe me. And what I want are answers. If only I had the courage to demand them. Guess I'll have to take this one step at a time. 

"Just that it's highly contagious and staved by sunlight..." I answer his question honestly, but somehow I feel like a child being confronted for doing something naughty in class, on the precipice of being disciplined. 

He doesn't respond immediately, and worry gnaws at my belly. "Pull over."

"Why?" My voice sounds too high, too close to whining, even to me. It's embarrassing, but I can hardly get enough air in as it is to try and repeat myself more normally. 

A deep weary sigh from him makes my spine stiffen. His voice is almost gentle, hesitant when he reveals, "It's not a plague. It's an invasion." 

Oxygen suspends altogether somewhere in my trachea, unmoving in or out. Distantly I can feel my foot pressing on the brake, but I'm not looking ahead. I'm staring at the creature not four feet from me at my right. He's watching me, eyes caught in mine, face unreadable and analyzing my reaction.

I want to say something, but I can't decipher what. I try, and it won't come out, the words as trapped as the air frozen in my aching lungs, choking me. Drowning me. 

_ I can't  breathe! _

Maybe I'm hyperventilating? I attempt to inhale, but it's like breathing through a straw. Everything grows blurry and dim around the edges of my vision, undulating in waves and streaks of dark and light. 

Low sounds rumble around me, unclear, jumbled together in a garbled roar as if underwater. My chest feels so heavy, weighed down by gravity; pushing, pushing, I slide away and sink through the seat into the gravel-covered road and down, down through the earth, into darkness. Into the deepest black nothingness. It plucks away my vision entirely, leaving behind emptiness. Hollow and cold. Lifeless. 


	3. Chapter 3

I'm floating. Everything is calm, quiet. There's a particular detached numbness that reminds me of deep sleep, but I'm not asleep. I can't be. Usually I'm not aware of it. I'm aware now though; or, at least, more than I would be if asleep. But I'm not awake either. Somehow I know that, wherever I am, it's comfortable, instilling me with distorted ease. I don't remember the last time I felt this relaxed. 

There's a gentle force, a lull, pulling me back and forth, but not like in water. I'm reminded of swinging on the big wooden porch swing at my childhood home; glossy red wood softened with cream-colored padding. I would lay on that swing and fall asleep in its cushioned grasp like a baby clutched in its mother's arms. 

Actually, that seems more apt somehow. 

Darkness surrounds me, shapeless, formless and endless, but something that wasn't there before is approaching from somewhere, a direction I can't pinpoint. I can't see it, can't really feel it either, it's more of a steadily growing perception, coming from a place other than my senses. 

All at once, an abrupt current pulses through the length of my body, and the deep infinite black falls away with a  _pop!_ Suddenly I can feel everything; every nerve is alive and screaming, not in pain but in acute vigor that edges discomfort. My body feels whole, limbs tingling. There's a distant pounding in my head, throbbing with every jostle of my body. 

Somehow I'm moving; not by my own will, but I'm not stationary. I can't tell if my eyes are open or not, it's still so dark; though it's not the complete blackness as before, more of a heavy gray, like there might be light somewhere nearby, but here it's just thick shadows. Noise seems to be all but absent here too, swallowed by the darkness. Far off and barely there is the faint hush of echoes, and the insistent thumping of my own heart. Mixed with it is an odd purring sound that seems much closer. 

Pressure builds around my knees and back as if my body is becoming more aware of its position. It's not entirely uncomfortable. Warmth surrounds me, almost too hot, and I find myself shifting to adjust away from it. My face rubs against something rough, firm but pliant—I catch the scent of moisture soaking through soil after fierce rainfall—and it moves beneath me, swelling and then falling. The heat sticks to me and I attempt to straighten up, stretching my legs and arms. 

"Unless you want to be dropped I suggest you stop that now." 

The sudden chastising voice in the middle of the humming quiet rings in my ears, striking me rigid. My head raises stiffly, staring into the space where the voice came from. Above me I can't see much, but whoever is carrying me must be able to because I get the distinct feeling of being watched like a presence pressing down on me.

Wait, wait. Back up.  _Carrying_ me? 

The ice that's frozen my body melts with the knowledge, and I'm suddenly flailing, pushing against whoever is managing to hold me. There's a small grunt. Then a moment of weightlessness. It's a short distance to the ground, but there's no preparing for making bodily contact with concrete. My hip takes the brunt of the fall, then my elbow and shoulder. Pulses of pain that I know will blossom into some nasty bruises travel all along my side.

I must make some noise of discomfort, because there's a presence close to me, almost hovering, as if uncertain whether to move any nearer.

The voice again, offering, "Will you let me help you up?" It's edged with slight exasperation, and I hesitate a response. Palms pressed to the cold floor, I push until I'm on hands and knees. It's slow-going and there's a growing ache building on my side, but I make it to my knees alone. Getting to my feet is harder; I can't tell if there are any walls or furniture nearby to brace myself on so I reach my arms out and wave them around slightly to test the darkness in hopes of finding something. When my hand finally makes contact with something solid I don't think too hard about what it might be and steady myself while pushing to stand.

I must move faster than my body can take because my head feels as if it's wobbling on my shoulders, jostling my brain in my skull until everything feels tilted, and I lose my footing. 

Prepared to meet the cement again I tense up, squeezing my eyes shut for what good it'll do me when I can't see as it is. A pair of hands grip the tops of my arms and stops my second messy descent to the floor. Embarrassment keeps my muscles locked with tension, but I manage to get my legs beneath me and my feet planted firmly on the ground. Though I'm not sure if I can remain upright on my own. Unsure of what to do, I just stand there, staring into the shadows where the owner of the hands grasping my arms is located. 

"Why is it so dark?" I whisper it, mostly to myself but it's so quiet that I'm pretty sure just about anyone could hear it. 

The bodiless voice replies with its own question: "Can you stand on your own?" The hands continue to hold me up, apparently not willing to let go unless I'm capable and prepared.

Too many things are whirling around inside my head at once. Questions pop up in quick succession while my body is still trying to get its bearings and find some sort of equilibrium. Where am I? Who is this with me? Is it the passenger from the truck? It sounds like him. How the hell did I even get here? Why am I here in the first place? Memories surface as the questions form, and it doesn't make me feel any better about my potential situation. 

A brief but gentle shake to my shoulders brings me back, and I shake my head. "I don't..." Inside of my chest, my heart is picking up its pace, making my breaths harder to take, as if I'm inhaling something thicker than air. "What is...this place? I can't see anything."

Rather than answer me, the hands keeping me on my feet slide down my arms, uncertain maybe, before they fall away. There's a small tremor in my knees but I manage to stay standing, unable to move in the dark without guidance. Just when I'm about to ask where they've gone, a click reaches my ears. Light cuts through the heavy gray shadows in a strong yellow beam, pointing up towards a high ceiling crisscrossed with metal scaffolding. Tears burn in my eyes and I squeeze them shut for a couple seconds as they adjust; a slight tint of red appears behind my eyelids.

When I open my eyes again, I'm met with a wide corridor made up of gray concrete walls that seem to go on and on both ways. With the help of the light illuminating within the dark it looks almost cavernous, black and never-ending beyond the small circle of light. Cracks and fissures crawl up the walls and dribble onto the matching floor, a telling sign that wherever this is has fallen into disrepair and must be pretty old. Based on the smell I'd bet it was a warehouse of some kind; metallic, but also musty and moist like a basement. There are no windows, so maybe somewhere underground? The thought isn't assuring and doesn't help to ease the heaviness of my anxious breathing. 

"You'll be safe here," the voice answers, carrying in a soft echo down the hall. There's that double-toned effect too, deep and neutral like the last time I heard it.

Right before I passed out. 

If I don't get my breathing under control, that'll be happening again. 

Slowly, I count to ten; inhaling deeply, holding my breath for a few seconds, then gradually exhaling. Air stutters in my throat a couple times before the tightness in my chest loosens slightly when I repeat the process. 

"Where  _is_ here exactly?" I finally ask, my voice less breathy and significantly more calm than I feel; tiny spasms still climb up and down my limbs. When I raise my eyes, I'm met with that unearthly black and red gaze I last saw in the passengers seat of the truck. 

He looks away briefly, a mere diverting of his eyes, before answering, "I can't say, but you're in less danger here than where you were." 

I blink at him. "What are you talking about? Stoneheart is one of the most secure buildings in New York, my uncle—"

"Eldritch Palmer knows what you've done." So he does already know who I am. Great. "There had to have been cameras." His head cants slightly as his eyes drop and rove up my body scrutinizingly, expression unchanging. It's disconcerting as hell, not to mention kind of embarrassing, and I can't help shuffling on my feet and suppressing the urge to tug at my overalls. "He's likely looking for you as we speak."

My face scrunches up, and I want to defend myself. But I don't know what to say to that. He's right, I guess. I recklessly, impulsively, helped potential—what? Assassins? Thieves?—escape a cruel and agonizing death. Looking at him though, dressed in military-grade tactical gear, it's hard to even make an accurate guess. Really, I don't know what they were in Stoneheart for. All I know is that they wanted my uncle, whether it was to threaten him, blackmail him, steal from him, or kill him I don't know; I just know they failed. Thank God they failed. Uncle Eldritch isn't the most compassionate person, but he doesn't deserve to be harmed—I hesitate. Even despite his willingness to harm others to such a degree, as evidenced by earlier? I look at the strange man not three feet away from me and am struck with confusion so harshly it feels like a weight pressing on my skull and chest.

Truth. That works best. Usually. I admit my reasons for helping in the first place, speaking softly, "I just wanted to help." I shrug. "What was happening to you and your..." I gesture vaguely in his direction. "...comrades, didn't seem right. It's one thing to be held accountable for whatever it was you were trying to do, but what he did, those lights that burned everyone..." I look at him then, really look at him, lingering on the burns faintly illuminated by the flashlight, and there's a change in his expression, small and pained, then it's gone, like a mere ripple across his strange face. "It wasn't right. It looked like torture."

A huff comes from him. Laughter. My face falls in a frown. "You really have no idea what is happening, do you?" There's a twinge of accusation in his tone, amusement too, and I resent it. 

I don't get the chance to make the decision to call him out on it then, because he is suddenly in motion, moving around me and continuing down the stretch of hallway in long striding steps. The moment the light falls away I hurry to catch up with him, unwilling to be left in the drowning-deep darkness, and grateful my body doesn't shut down on me again. 

The corridor isn't as endless as the lack of light made it seem; less than twenty yards down there's a dead-end, the hall breaking off into two new paths on the left and right. We go right, and a few feet in the concrete walls start to have doors in them; some huge and metal like garage doors, others more normal-sized, and some are made of chain-links. Those ones I can see inside, a few lit by bare bulbs hanging down and revealing shelves stocked with variously sized jars and cans and boxes. Others lead to different darkened hallways. We continue to the end of this hall, turn, walk a ways down the next, turn again. 

It's like a labyrinth in here. If I wanted to try making it out of here on my own, it would be a challenge. Which raises some questions: am I being kept here against my will? Can I leave if I want to?

I want to ask, but I still don't know just how much I can trust this stranger. All I wanted to do was help, not be abducted—though that is stretching it a bit, I guess. I did willingly decide to help drive their truck, and I wasn't going to have saved them only for them to be caught struggling to escape. Although, looking at him now as he walks a little ahead, he seems to be moving just fine on his own... 

"Here's where you'll stay."

I flinch at the sound of his voice, and I cringe at my flightiness. Thankfully he doesn't comment on my skittishness. He's stopped at a pretty unremarkable dark gray metal door among a row of identical ones. The only outstanding feature is the little Roman numeral "VII" painted on it in white paint. 

I look from the door, to him, then back again. I stare at the worn handle but don't move to open it. "Am I being kept here against my will?" Thankfully my words don't shake too much. Though I can't say the same for my hands, clasped tightly together in front of me in an attempt to ease the tremors jumping through my fingers.

He's watching me, I can feel it like a fine weight against the side of my face. "Do you want to leave?"

"Yes." 

A few heartbeats of silence. He moves forward and opens the door. It squeaks only a bit and swings inward, revealing a square pocket of darkness in the wall. "Do you know what's out there?" There's a click, and light floods the room from a halogen bulb attached near the doorway. I take it in from the hall, assessing quietly. It's pretty sparse, looking more like a prison cell than a bedroom, but I don't think prison cells usually have a locker, chest, and rug. Maybe barracks then, like in the military. A bare twin-sized bed sits in the far right corner, hugging the walls. Beside it is a small square nightstand. Resting at the end of the bed is the metal chest, nearly as wide as the bed itself. At the other side of the room, opposite the bed is the locker, taller and wider than those seen typically in a school. On the far left wall, an oblong piece of dusty glass hangs from a wire on a nail—a mirror. The rug lies in the center of the room, a basic black and appears old and nearly worn through. 

There's a stale smell in the air that's a telling sign of how old this place must be, of how long since it’s last been used. I haven't stayed in a room this rustic since summer camp as a chubby tween. Yikes, that's my privilege talking. But not much has changed I guess; my own apartment isn't exactly luxurious, since I refuse to take financial handouts from Uncle Eldritch. He's offered to relocate me to more high-end lofts multiple times, and each time I decline. It's not a pride thing, really, it's more of a responsibility one. Though there are the occasions when bills will mysteriously end up paid and groceries just appear in my kitchen. Still, with what's going on throughout the city, part of me wishes I'd taken one of his generous offers. Maybe if I lived in a more secure building, I wouldn't have had to stay with him in the first place, which means that perhaps I wouldn't have gotten myself into whatever mess this is that I'm in now. 

But then again, if I wasn't there when I was, what might have happened? Would they all have died?

"Why were you looking for my uncle?" I haven't stepped into the room yet, instead turning to my nameless guide. 

There must have been too much accusation in my tone, because when he looks at me, something close to agitation flickers over his face before settling back into a contemplative blankness. After a few long moments, when I think he's just not going to bother responding, and leave me feeling annoyed and awkward, he says, "We need his help."

A straight answer, finally. And several more questions sprout up to replace my previous one. I open my mouth to ask when he puts up one gloved hand to stop me and cocks his head to one side, as if listening to something far away I can't possibly hear. My lips purse, frustration bubbling in my gut. 

"There's something I need to attend to." His hand gestures into the room. "Please stay in here while I take care of it." I start to protest when he shakes his head to stop me, interrupting, "I'll come back." His head ducks down slightly to my height, black and red eyes catching mine, sincerity solid and compelling within them. "I'll answer your questions."

I swallow back any complaints. A sigh heaves from my lungs, and I nod once in agreement, turning to step into the room. The door releases a light squeal as it is drawn closed. Just before it clicks shut, I whirl around. "I have to ask one more thing before you go."

He pauses with the door open only a crack, waiting. 

"What's your name?"

A pause. From the space in the doorway, I catch his eyes lowering. He tugs the door closed the rest of the way, breathing out his reply. 

"Vaun." 


	4. Chapter 4

Waiting is so much more agonizing when you don't know how long you'll have to do it for. Nearly two hours have passed and there's been no sign of Vaun. I've tried opening the door to see if I can catch him returning, but evidently the room can be locked from the outside. He's trapped me in here. Great. So far being helpful and cooperative hasn't done me much good. 

There's a still quietness occupying the room that unsettles me. A faint hum comes from somewhere far away, maybe from a generator of some kind or a ventilation system; there's a vent near the ceiling, small and rectangular, but when I hold my hands over it there doesn't seem to be any air coming out of it. That knowledge doesn't help my feelings of entrapment and encroaching claustrophobia. There aren't any windows which, again, makes me wonder if I'm somewhere underground. I rub at my eyes beneath my glasses—I'm honestly surprised I've managed to keep them on my face throughout this whole ordeal—and lower myself onto the mattress. It's soft enough, though it releases a light squeakunder my weight. 

I fish my cellphone from my pocket and set to scouring my apps for decent entertainment to pass the time and briefly take my mind off of my current predicament. 

Another hour passes with me browsing my phone, but with no cellular network connection or wifi (not that the internet has been working much anyway), the distractions have been limited. Luckily, I have a couple games downloaded and nearly a full battery. But playing them too long drains the power. So, after a drop from 97% to 73%, I opt for a more energy-conservative means of amusement. 

The pictures in my photos app date back nearly seven years, capturing the random moments and significant events of my life all the way back to age seventeen. Vacations, family, friends, serendipities, some saved pictures, and occasional screen shots, make up the majority. Only a handful of the hundreds of photos are of just me. I've never really thought of myself as photogenic. Just about every time anyone so much as points a camera in my direction I instinctively shy away. What can I say? Society damaged my self-esteem. 

I push up from my seat on the bed and walk to the mirror on the wall, staring into it. A rounded face reflects back at me, a bit paler than normal, and almost sickly, as if I've experienced a terrible fright and the blood has drained from my skin. My eyes are wider than usual, pupils dark and dilated, though considering my circumstances at the moment it's not too surprising or alarming. Weirdly my body is showing more signs of panic than I actually feel, as if my brain is still catching up after blacking out. Maybe this is what being in shock is like?

There's the slight definition of cheekbones, just a gentle slope and a dip of shadow, but just nearly everything about me screams soft. The apples of my cheeks are full, my lips plush albeit a bit cracked with dryness. I've never been a small woman, have never had words like petite or slender used to describe me. Instead I stand at an average height and carry a figure on the curvy side. 

I step back a pace or two and twist a bit, fingers tugging at the snug bib of the overalls at my chest. Breasts that didn't develop until nearly two years into high school taper into a waist hidden beneath the looser fabric of the pants. Wide hips keep them from hanging awkwardly on my frame. Further still, my thighs are thick and they fill the overalls perfectly; not too tight, not too baggy. The shirt beneath is long-sleeved and thankfully thick enough to ward off the chill in the musty air. My hoodie must have gotten lost in the transition from the truck to here; holes or not I would have covered myself with it somehow. 

I must have lost the hair tie that was in my pocket too. One would be a godsend right now. Fingers pushing through my hair, I attempt to rearrange it into something less obtrusive. Curls froth around my face in a frizzy mess. Usually they're pretty tame and loose, more wavy, but with the day I've had, knots are to be expected. I begin picking my fingers at the more prominent tangles, wincing when chunks of hair are ripped from my scalp. Automatically, I begin separating and twisting my hair into a french braid, it's one of the only styles I can manage on the fly without any other hair-styling tools. It's also one of the only styles that will keep my hair in place for an extended amount of time, regardless of any activity I engage in. With no hair tie, I'm left having to salvage a piece of frayed cloth from my shirt to cinch the end together in a bow. I inspect my work in the mirror once more and arrange a few errantly escaped curls hanging loosely around my face. 

In the reflection, my hands seem to shake, and I frown, raising them to look closer. Tiny tremors run through my fingers, circuiting up to the tips and back down until they look as if they're nearly vibrating. 

_ What's wrong now? _

Teeth sink into my lip, and I nearly draw blood when I realize I'm shivering there too. Lips quivering, I try to swallow and my mouth feels dry, tongue sticking thickly to the roof of my mouth.  Maybe I'm just tired...

There's a warmth lining my eyes, and it makes my vision go blurry, though not like before, there's no darkness or sucking tunnels. It's like looking through warped glass, shiny and misshapen. My chest feels tight and I can't help the abrupt sob that escapes. 

_ Why does everything suddenly hurt? _

Before I can be blinded by tears I stumble back to the bed and sit, clutching my hands in my lap and taking deep breaths because I don't know what else to do. I let the tears come, and I let them fall, because riding the emotion is easier right now while I'm alone. 

Reality is finally settling in. I don't know where I am, why I'm here. Dammit, why did I have to help? I could have just left them all behind and I'd still be safe in my room at Stoneheart. I'd still be blissfully ignorant, unaware of the happenings in the streets throughout the city. Safe from the plague. Protected from the truth. 

A sting in my chest catches my dishonesty, my uncertainty. Beneath the heaviness of my fear, there's something close to intrigue, but it's minuscule. However small, though, it's spreading like ink in water, dyeing my perceptions with curiosity and attentiveness. I really truly don't know how I should react, so my body is making the decision for me. Frustration, trepidation, fascination, they war inside of me. I'll just let it all run its course like a bad cold—like I have a choice, fighting it might tear me apart—but when I'm done I can't just sit in here anymore. Complacency won't help, won't get me answers. Won't help me understand. 

So I sit, staring at the bare wall across from me, and I consciously, resolvedly, breathe in and out, in and out while tears make hot tracks down my cheeks. They drip off of my chin onto my hands, soak into the fabric of my pants. Hiccups make my chest jump and sometimes when I swallow it hurts. 

Only a few more weak sounds manage to slip loose from my throat, but gradually, breathing becomes smoother, easier. I blink hard a few times and my eyes feel sore and dry. I shove my glasses to rest at the top of my head and rub the sleeve of my sweater against my face back and forth, trying to brush away the dried and crusted tears on my cheeks. 

There's a click from the door, and I freeze with my arm pressed to my face. A squeal signals the door opening, and I don't move, nearly hunched in on myself. 

When he doesn't say anything, I take the initiative. "You locked me in." There's a slight hoarseness to my voice, but the accusation is still noticeably strong. 

"For your own protection." He doesn't sound sorry. 

I let my arm drop so I can stare at him in disbelief, eyes wide and probably red and swollen. "Protect me from  _what?_ You haven't explained anything to me, only led me into wherever the hell this is and trapped me in an unfamiliar place for hours. I'm  scared ." The words waver only a little when my throat tightens. 

Vaun looks away briefly, something thoughtful passing over his alien features, before nodding once, slowly. "You're right." He steps into the room and places himself across from me in front of the wall. He stands straight and one hand grips his wrist in front of him, a stance of a soldier. "You have questions. Ask them." 

"Okay..." Now that he's here and willing to listen, everything I've wanted to ask flies from my brain all at once like releasing a cage of frantic birds. Stalling while I collect my thoughts, I slide my glasses back to perch on my nose, adjusting a few curls tickling my cheek. Maybe I should start with something simple and work from there. What was the first thing that popped into my head when I saw him? "Not to sound rude, but what exactly...are you?" Jesus, there isn't really a way to say something like that and not sound obnoxious and coarse.

He doesn't look insulted at all, as if he gets the question often, instead taking a measured breath before responding, "I'm strigoi." 

"What is that?" Strigoi. Odd word. Never heard it before. 

His answer doesn't come immediately, as if weighing what he should divulge to me. "It's an ancient parasitic race, meant to exist in obscurity."

I fight the urge to recoil. "Meaning...?"

"Meaning the epidemic sweeping this city was intentional."

An uncertain frown pinches between my brows. Something rises to the surface of my mind, and I pluck it up before it sinks again. "Before..." I begin haltingly. "When we were in the truck, you said that what's going on isn't a plague, that it's...an invasion. What did you mean?" 

Watching him stand before me like some sort of professor—or drill sergeant—while I sit and look up at him, I realize I'm worried about his answer. Nothing that I have experienced in the past six hours or so has been normal, but there's a weird itching between my shoulder blades that goes deeper than my skin that feels like a warning to be prepared for an answer I won't like. To brace myself for another shock. Prevent passing out again, maybe. 

Vaun seems hesitant to reply, an increasing reoccurrence it seems, and that only makes my wariness worsen. But I need to know. He said he'd answer my questions so he can't hold out on me now. I'm here for some reason; for my protection apparently, but that can't be all there is to it. I'm just one person. Insignificant and unimportant. Ignorant, however, is not something I want to be. Not if I can help it. 

"In the beginning of the strigoi, there were the ancients—the first of my kind, the most powerful and influential. It is from them that borne the population of strigoi that exist in the world today." There must be something in my expression because he pauses. I have to nod for him to continue. "Initially, there was never meant to be a lot of us. It was mutually agreed that the strigoi would keep a low profile and take only what was needed." My frown deepens. "But there was one of the ancients who always wanted more—more power, more attention, more notoriety. He calls himself the Master—"

A small huff of laughter escapes through my nose, mainly out of disbelief. Who calls themselves "the Master" without any irony outside of fiction? Vaun levels a blank stare at me and I bashfully lower my gaze to the floor to avoid it. "Sorry," I mumble. 

"Anyway," he goes on, "for hundreds of years, the Master has—"

"You can live that long?" I can't keep the raised incredulousness out of my inquisitive tone. 

Vaun sighs exasperatedly, nods, and starts again. "The Ancients have kept a close bond, but the Master broke away long ago and has since been creating strigoi in rapid and random increments, adding to his strength through permeation." 

"Like an army?" 

"Of sorts, yes."

I tilt my head, absorbing his words carefully. "You said 'create'. Are strigoi not born like normal humans?" Saying it out loud sounds so damn strange. But hearing myself actively participate aloud in the discussion helps to ingest the information. 

Vaun shifts and relaxes his posture slightly; something eases at his shoulders. Was he waiting for me to ask that particular question? "All strigoi are created by the transfer of a parasitic worm into a human host. Though not all strigoi possess the worms." Before I can ask anything else he says, "There are strigoi that are not entirely affected by the change due to extraordinary circumstances. A few individuals have in fact been born strigoi." 

My eyebrows shoot up. "How does that even work? The, uh, transfer? Is it actually like an illness? Or is it something aerial?" I shake my head, twisting my fingers together as I try to work it out. "But no, you said it was a worm, so contact has to be made somehow, right?" 

"Yes, that's right..."

"Where does the worm come from? Is it inside of you? Can I see what they look like so I know what to avoid?" The questions come easily and swiftly now, and I worry only distantly if I'm overwhelming him. He's the one who said he'd answer my questions. Though if he meant all at once I'm not sure. I suppose that isn't my problem. 

I sit there waiting for a response, but I don't get one. Vaun has strangely went quiet, staring off at something I can't see, head cocked to the side as if listening to a sound far away or on an entirely different wavelength altogether. 

It lasts only a few moments, but when he comes back down to reality I'm staring at him, hoping he can read the doubt on my face. 

"We'll continue this later. I need you to come with me." He straightens and gestures at me to get up. I do, but slowly, adjusting my clothes as he makes for the door. He stands just outside, waiting for me. 

When I step out into the hall, he shuts the door behind me and starts down in the opposite direction from where we came before. His strides are long, hurried. He has somewhere to be, and for some reason I'm wanted there too.

"So, where are we going?" I wonder warily, watching while we walk as the dimly-lit halls grow somehow more eerie. 

"The Ancients want to meet you." 


	5. Chapter 5

The Ancients. I just learned they even existed and now they're requesting my audience. Why? It all feels so surreal, as if I'll blink a little too hard and it all will melt away and have been some fever dream. Part of me wishes exactly that would happen. But the bigger, more present and dominant part wants to understand. I'm willingly being given an explanation for the madness, and I think that's probably one of the best outcomes for this whole situation right now. I'll take what I can get, which is why—despite the buzzing apprehension that tightens my chest—I don't say anything or ask anymore questions for now while Vaun leads me deeper through the labyrinth of tunnels. 

A concoction of anticipation and anxiety twists a knot in my stomach, an expected reaction when I have very little idea of what to expect, but I can't control it regardless. Light becomes sparse when we turn a final corner and approach a wide gaping maw of a passage at the end of the corridor that takes up an entire span of wall, arched and seeming more cavelike. Darkness within is thick like a curtain, and Vaun steps right into it, no hesitation, shadows closing around him the way a stone is enveloped when released to sink into a black body of water. 

I pause just before the entrance. If there's any sort of light inside it must be beyond another door or wall of some sort because I can't see anything but pure blackness. I consider calling out to Vaun, to ensure he's just inside, and to use him as a way to guide myself through the dark because if I'm expected to navigate without being able to see, I'll need help. 

Hands raised out in front of me just enough to know if I'm going to bump into something, I step through the entrance, and am immediately relieved it's just that. Briefly I wonder if making my way through the dark is some sort of test, but what would be the point? They asked for me to be here, so whatever charade this is seems pointless—

A few feet in, soft shafts of light like spotlights ignite and fall from the ceiling in a circular pattern directed in the middle of the room. It glows barely bright enough to cast pale light throughout what looks to be a chamber of some kind. It's massive, appearing almost like an empty underground car garage. Instead, just beneath the lights, in the center of the room, resting within a large circle, three long-limbed figures lie in a semicircle. They almost seem suspended from the ground, but no. Some sort of contraption built into the floor holds them up. 

_ Jesus .  _

Ashen skin stretches over long gnarled limbs, entirely unclothed and distorted by wrinkles. A disturbed type of wonder seizes me as I immediately take note of their lack of genitals; as amorphous as the rest of their bodies appear. Is that normal for strigoi? Are they all sexless? Do their parts just...fall off? Close up? I suppose if they produce via infection from the worms, they’d have no use for them. My nose scrunches up a bit. More questions are piling up by the minute. By the end of this encounter I'm bound to have many more. Not all of them pleasant, I imagine. I conceal a shudder, hugging my arms around myself. 

Sharp-tipped, spindly-fingered hands rest crossed over their chests, a lot like how someone is positioned in a casket. They look to be sleeping. While their eyes are closed, every few seconds one of them twitches and stirs as if on the precipice of waking up. As I take in their inhuman features—even more so than Vaun's, more drastic in their entire lack of noses, long pointed ears, wide foreheads—I finally feel the beginning edge of fear like acid in my stomach, taste my pulse gradually increasing on the back of my tongue while my fingertips feel tingly with a numbing chill. 

Vaun stands only a few feet ahead, eyes observing me carefully, an attempt to gauge my reaction. When I step up next to him he murmurs, "I'll be speaking for the Ancients." My face must express some semblance of my confusion because he adds, "They use other strigoi they've turned as a sort of mouth piece to communicate. What they want to say will go through me."

"Like telepathy, or something?" I suddenly feel silly asking it, though warily eyeing the creatures ahead looking like something born straight from a Victorian era horror novel, I suppose even the more far-fetched speculations shouldn't be entirely disregarded. Still, it goes against just about everything logical that I've been taught throughout my life. Nothing I've been exposed to could have ever prepared me for something like this. In any case, personally, I think I'm taking it pretty well. 

Vaun considers my question for a second, then nods. "Very much like that." He starts approaching the pale figures ahead, but slower since he's expecting me to follow. Hesitation to move sings along my muscles, but I manage, one foot in front of the other. It isn't until I'm walking again that I sense we're not alone. Hidden within the shadows where the lights don't reach, there's a recognition, a deep perception of movement that is caught with something more than the eye. Like when you swear something was there just on the edge of your vision, but when you turn to look head-on there's nothing. I feel that now like a trick being played on my sight, feel like I'm being watched as if it's a physical touch prickling down my back and around my shoulder blades. For the first time I wonder just how many of these strigoi are in this compound. And whether or not they present a very real threat to me. Vaun said I'd be safe here, but just how much truth his claim holds hasn't been made entirely clear. 

Timidly, I begin to ask, "Will I be okay—"

"It's in your best interest not to speak unless spoken to," Vaun advises. He's turned to face me, stopped to stand in the middle of the circle that looks oddly dyed with streaks a deep rust red with his hands clasped before him, all business. A strange sort of solemnity befalls his features like a curtain dropping. Behind him, the three Ancients are risen to reach about eight or nine feet on some metal structure intended to securely hold them up yet rest at a slight incline. It'd be difficult to sleep if they were completely vertical, I guess. 

A collective shudder seems to pass over the Ancients, and together they rouse, animating into consciousness. The moment their eyes peel open is the same instant the fear growing in my gut solidifies and shoots up my spine to grip my throat. I only catch a glimpse of monstrous pitch black sclera and piercing blood-red iris before my gaze drops and stares resolutely into Vaun's marginally more familiar black and crimson eyes. The color may be wrong, but at least he possesses some closer semblance of normal human facial structure. 

I manage to not flinch when he says my name in a volume that nearly booms in the cavernous space, seemingly bouncing off of walls I cannot see; it's the same multi-toned voice but amplified to carry. Bewilderment traverses through my head in a passing jumble of debilitating fog. I never told him my name... 

"You've done a strange thing, having put yourself at risk for strigoi. What do you have to say to this?" Hearing the words that apparently aren't Vaun's own words come from his mouth unnerves me, and I'm certain it shows on my face. Every word in the English language scrambles together in my mind like some bizarre scrabble game. I'm not sure how to respond.

At my silence, he goes on. "You've saved the lives of our invaluable Sun Hunters when you had no obligation to. For that, you have our gratitude, and have thus earned our protection." 

Surprise slackens my jaw and draws my attention to the looming Ancients before falling back to Vaun, one of only two out of nearly half a dozen that I managed to get out of Stoneheart alive. "I couldn't save them all..." I admit regretfully. 

"You had no obligation to save them at all. They failed their mission and were prepared to accept the consequences, even at the cost of their lives. Your intervention just may have averted a very heavy loss." 

When they don't supply anything more, I swallow and tentatively ask, "What does that mean? A loss for what?"

Vaun levels his eyes to meet mine, watching carefully as he answers, "Humanity." 

Restlessness builds in my arms and legs, prompting me to shift a little in place. My fingers itch to tug at my clothes, adjust my glasses, touch my hair. "Okay," I begin patiently, leagues more than I actually feel, "what does that have to do with me?" I glance away and try again. "W-what I mean is, how is my being here going to help anything else? I saved Vaun and one other. Did that really warrant bringing me here, wherever this is?" My gaze briefly rises to an unseen ceiling stretching to unknown heights, meeting blackness surrounding the soft patch of light we occupy.

"As a relative of Eldritch Palmer, your assistance could be invaluable." 

I bite back a heavy sigh. "I mean no disrespect, but how? Whatever you want from him I can't help you with. We're not incredibly close and I don't have access to anything in Stoneheart." I realize belatedly that I'm not exactly doing myself any favors by listing all the ways I'm  not going to be of use. They mentioned giving me their protection, but I have no idea to what extent. 

Another quick glimpse reveals the Ancients having no reactions beyond a subtle tilt of the head or shift of their arms which could mean nothing, or could mean anything. 

"You're more important than you realize." Vaun states this with more conviction than I think it deserves, but I'm momentarily speechless all the same. 

"So then, what now?" I hope the escalating anxiety is heard in my voice. I want them to know I'm wary and frightened. Maybe they'll let me leave if they sense uncertainty. Or perhaps they'll just get rid of me once they realize I don't have any real use. The desire to run clenches at my muscles until I'm worried I'll start to cramp, but where would I go? This place is like a fortress, halls upon halls that all look alike. 

"You will help us with completing our objective." 

I don't really like the sound of that. "Meaning...?" 

"Destroying the Master. You are going to join the Sun Hunters in their efforts to find and eradicate him and his scourge." 


	6. Chapter 6

"Take me home." 

The demand isn't the first I've made on the trek back the way we came, heading towards the room I was kept in for hours, I think. I'm not going to be trapped in there again with no indication to when I'll get back out. If Vaun intends to get me back in that room, he'll have to physically force me. I'm not a prisoner, and I certainly don't plan on becoming a Sun Hunter—which I'm still not even sure what the purpose of being one is. I don't belong here. 

"I can't do that," Vaun says, seemingly entirely unaffected by my mounting dismay. Apparently, the Ancients' word is final, and nothing that I have to say matters anymore. 

That won't stop me from trying to get through to him, to see things my way, if not at least a little bit. "You can't keep me here against my will." I realize my tone is rising, my forced calm cracking and crumbling around the edges. I wanted to do this maturely and with as much composure I can manage, but everything is mounting again, building in crashing waves against my skull, too much too soon, and my mind can only wrap around so much new incomprehensible information in a single day before it starts to glitch. An ache has been steadily growing in my head since I woke up here, pounding in time with my heartbeat like a mallet against the tissue of my brain. I'm afraid my whole body will shut down if I don't get out of here.

Vaun doesn't respond, remaining silent as he leads me who knows where. Ignoring me. Fury spikes through my veins like some drug, sudden and sharp, and before I can think better of it, I stop and reach out to grasp at the black hood resting against his upper-back in my fist, tugging. 

Suddenly the wind is missing from my lungs, having been forced out in a wheezed  _whoosh__._ The unyielding wall pushes into my back, digging into my shoulder blades. I'm kept here by a forearm pressed immutably against my sternum like some band of metal; with enough force it could break the bone. I fight to get my breath back as I stare into Vaun's face from inches away. He's not amused. Upper lip curled slightly, his lashless eyes flicker between mine before they narrow. 

"Do not do that again," he warns lowly. 

All I can do is nod in assent until he releases me and takes a step back. The wall is the only thing still keeping me on my feet, and I remain there until I feel certain I can stand on my own. Hand pressed to the cement, I side-step Vaun to put more space between us. 

My words sound breathless, but I'm determined to make my intentions clear as I press, "I want to go home."

Exasperation looks odd on his face, but I feel the weight of it all the same. "You won't be safe there." 

"I don't feel safe  here !" I'm breathing hard, fear, panic, and obstinance mixing a cocktail of sensations in my stomach and driving my pulse to a quick pace. Nausea is a stinging sourness at the back of my throat. It's suddenly too warm, stifling and close, and my vision wavers like heat off of scorching asphalt. I don't recall why it's happening, but my back slides down the wall until my bottom touches the cold cement ground. Knees drawn to my chest, I try to remember when I last took my medication, only to cough out a laugh when I realize I've run out, having taken the last pill yesterday morning, right before deciding to sneak into Uncle Eldritch's penthouse. At least, I think it's only been that long. How long have I been here again? There aren't any clocks or windows to indicate the time, and my cellphone is still in the room resting atop the bed. It'll run out of power soon. Maybe they'll let me go before it does. Another choked laugh escapes. It sounds too much like a sob. Am I really going to start crying again? 

There's a shuffle of cloth ahead, close, but I don't see it. I've tucked my chin towards my chest, eyes squeezed shut as I breathe carefully. A presence hovers in front of me, solid and quiet. I raise my face from its place pressed to the tops of my knees and look at Vaun crouched to my level.

"You didn't ask for any of this, I know," he says prudently, looking only a little uncertain. "Most of what you've learned today still must not make much sense to you, but that doesn't make any of it untrue." He glances away, clasps his gloved hands, looks back at me. "Please know that we would appreciate your help. Human Sun Hunters aren't easy to come by."

"Do you normally recruit unwilling Sun Hunters?" My voice is muffled by my shirt sleeve pressed to my mouth. 

He shakes his head, not a negation, but in misunderstanding. "The Sun Hunter before you was proof enough that we shouldn't." Before me? That must have been who that man was with them in Stoneheart. "But in a war as dangerous as this one, nothing is definite." 

"W-war?" I splutter, recoiling further into the wall. 

He stares at me, wondering if I'm being serious. "You've been staying in Stoneheart for weeks now, since the outbreak, yes?" At my nod he continues, "You haven't seen what is out there now with your own eyes." He pushes to his feet, looking down at me. "I'm going to show you." 

Show me? "Does that mean I'm going to get out of here?" The eagerness is nearly palpable in the words, but at this point I care very little. Let him know how much I want to leave. 

"Yes."

I don't realize how much tension coils through my muscles until I uncurl my limbs and loosen my legs to stretch in front of me, my feet just inches short of Vaun's boots. Using the wall at my back for support and balance, I slide upwards onto my feet. "Lead the way. But before we go I need to grab my phone." 

*******

We've ended up back in the maze of halls. Guided by the flashlight once more, likely more for my sake than for his, Vaun navigates our way to what I imagine is the exit. He hasn't mentioned what we will do exactly once we're out, but I figure it might be pretty dangerous. Especially if the rifle strapped to his back is any indication. It's been directly in my line of sight since we started walking, and I wonder, not for the first time, just how perilous the streets of the city are now. Although, that's what this whole outing is meant to do: give me insight into the current state of New York City. And, if what I've been told is true, it's not great. 

My lack of awareness doesn't sit right with me, makes me feel ignorant and oblivious like a naive child. If strigoi have been causing this whole "outbreak" then wouldn't it be a bigger ordeal? Like, globally? Even staying in Stoneheart I wasn't entirely aware of what's been happening for weeks apparently. Granted, there's been little to no access to any news outlets, internet, or cellular towers, not to mention no contact with anyone outside of Stoneheart, but to have had no idea whatsoever... 

Even Uncle Eldritch had to have known, very well even, otherwise why would he have had that trap built into his office, specifically designed to kill strigoi. Protecting me is one thing, but keeping me blind to the truth of the outbreak is ridiculous and cruel, if only because my lack of experience and knowledge could ultimately cause me harm. If I had known the reality of the situation from the beginning, maybe I wouldn't feel quite so befuddled and out of my depth.

The hall opens up into a large expanse of space, a lot like the chamber the Ancients reside in, only difference being that this one holds several vehicles, mostly black SUVs, from what I can make out in the scope of the flashlights beam. Vaun approaches one seemingly at random, opening the drivers side door. He looks at me, nodding towards the passenger side while he removes his gun and places it in the back seat. When I climb in he switches off the flashlight and slides in himself before turning the ignition. Headlights blink on and illuminate the cars ahead. He actually waits for me to buckle my seatbelt before easing out of the parking space and heading for a ramp that'd been hidden in the dark. 

The car crawls up at a steady incline, following the twisting road. It's a good three solid minutes before the soft glow of daylight gradually fills the darkness in a hazy blue luster. Just on the edge of the light, Vaun rolls the car to a stop. I start to question what he's doing, only to close my mouth when he raises his hood over his head and pulls a pair of sunglasses from the compartment between our seats and slides them in over of his eyes.

When the car starts moving again, the light takes shape, solidifying into the periwinkle blue of early morning. Excitement to see the sky tickles at my stomach, and a shiver of anticipation seizes me. It's there, just beyond a gate of thick solid metal, shining through a wide slit of glass and chainlink at the top. 

Vaun puts the car in park in front of the gate and steps out to speak with a few others dressed like him guarding it before getting back behind the wheel. The gate glides open with barely a sound, and we ride out onto a rundown parking lot, ground mottled with cracks and sprouting weeds. A glimpse through the side view mirror shows an enormous building behind us, maybe three stories, but I know it possesses two or maybe three times that beneath it. Maybe it used to be a factory of some sort? Whatever it was, it looks abandoned, and that could very well be what its occupants want outsiders to believe. It is one among many rundown buildings in this old industrial district.

The ride is bumpy at first, wheels traveling over unmaintained roads pocked with potholes and gashes in the asphalt. This whole area hasn't seen maintenance for some time. The ground smooths out when we make it onto roads in a greater commercial area, passing gas stations and convenience stores and the occasional plaza or strip mall housing fast food joints, salons, and clothing stores.

Air puffs in front of my face while my eyes scour the streets, taking in the changes, both evident and emphasizing just how much the plague has taken from the city. There's certainly not as many people outside as there usually is during the day; more than last night, sure, but considerably less enough to notice something isn't right. While it is still early in the morning, New York City is typically always bustling with activity, regardless of the time. People always have somewhere to be. Even when it seems like they're going nowhere in particular. Now they move as if they're running from something, hurrying to beat some clock. Or keep up with one. In this case, the sun. I glance at Vaun, focused on driving, almost entirely covered to protect himself from the sun's rays. My arms clasp around my chest tight to preserve the body heat I've built up since getting into the car, the chill of the morning clinging to me like wet sheets after an icy rain. 

It's an eerie feeling, seeing the result of an epidemic sweeping over the city. Especially since the first wave of it occurred without my notice or knowledge, it's like missing an entire scene in a play and now I'm unaware of a chunk of details and am scrambling to piece it all together. Garbage has accumulated in sporadic piles all over the sides of the streets. Every now and then we pass a car that's been broken into or a store with its windows shattered. Just how many public sectors have ceased operations since the plague hit? What does that mean for the average citizens just trying to ensure survival until this whole mess is over?

"You're shaking again." Vaun's voice speaks so suddenly it makes me flinch, startled. "I'm just cold," I say. It's the truth; without my jacket I'm vulnerable to the cold. Fine shivers skitter along my skin, drawing goosebumps and prickling the hairs on my arms.

Without looking away from the road, Vaun reaches forward to the console and turns two of the several knobs there, one for temperature and another for strength. The heater kicks on and releases warm air, drawing a sigh of relief from my lips. I would have turned it on myself if I didn't think it was overstepping by messing with settings in a car that isn't mine. I place my hands in front of the vent, rubbing them together to get the blood flowing after having them shoved under my arms. 

A muffled _ping_ sounds from my pocket, bouncing around the interior of the SUV. Stunned for a moment at the unexpected noise, I scramble for my phone. The battery is only at 17%, but that's not what widens my eyes, brows pinching together. The little white box indicating a notification hovers on my lock screen.

A message. From Uncle Eldritch. 

Somehow he managed to get a text through. A call never would have made it, at least not through a cellphone, which is the only reason why I figure my phone doesn't have dozens of miscalls from both family and friends. 

I make myself read and reread the message. It's only a handful of words, but they tighten around my body as if physically binding my muscles. 

** _ You must return home.  _ **

"He's contacted you," Vaun says, and I only realize we've stopped when I look at him and see the scenery hasn't changed. The car is idling, but we're sitting at an empty four-way intersection in a quiet residential neighborhood. 

"Yeah," I sigh, lifting the phone for him to see the message himself. 

His eyes flicker over the screen. "He must know you're with us."

I twist beneath my seatbelt to look at him better. "How would he?" I shake my head. "What does he have against you guys anyway?" 

"We possess...conflicting goals." 

I blink at him. "Obviously. He tried to kill you; he  _did_ off most of your squad." 

"And if you hadn't interfered we all would be dead." Vaun tilts his head thoughtfully, watching me with a strange rich depth in the crimson of his eyes. "I never did give my thanks for saving my and Pytr's lives." 

Something warm makes my cheeks tingle, and I clear my throat. "Yeah, yeah. No problem..." I press my lips together, suddenly dry. "Anyway, I assume this—" I wiggle the phone in my hand "—means I'm not going anywhere near Stoneheart anytime soon." 

It's a couple heartbeats before he responds with a nod, answering, "Yes. It's clearly a trap, though I'm unsure how much danger you'd be in even if we attempted a counter-attack by springing it." 

A small smile tugs at my lips. "Worried about my well-being now?" 

He side-eyes me, studying. "Hm. It would be ridiculous to use you as cannon fodder. Your usefulness extends further than you realize, (Y/N)." With the way he says my name, it sounds almost mystical when spoken with his multi-toned voice. 

"Still don't see how, but if it keeps me out of harms way then then I'm for it." 

"The Ancients said that you have the protection of the Sun Hunters for saving me and Pytr. They don't take that lightly. We're invaluable to them, and you put yourself at risk to help us. We will see you safe." He looks at me directly then, something fierce and unsettling gliding in his eyes. "I will see you safe." 


	7. Chapter 7

"Can we stop by my apartment so I can pick up my extra charger? The one I usually use is at Stoneheart, and since we can't go there..." My cell has officially reached a low enough percentage for me to feel uncomfortable even clicking on the lock screen. I haven't gotten any other messages after Uncle Eldritch's, but I've been kind of hoping I'd get lucky and happen to get one I'd actually be glad to receive, like from my mom. She's probably worried out of her mind right now... 

"That's one of the first places Palmer will look for you." Vaun started driving again a while ago, and we've since left the neighborhood and crossed into a shopping district with multiple-storied buildings crammed together. 

"Then what am I supposed to do about clothes? Toiletries?" I pluck at the strap of my overalls. "If you're insisting I stay in your dungeon-home-meets-fallout-shelter I can't wear this all the time, and I haven't brushed my teeth for so long they're starting to feel fuzzy." A hollow growl lightly rolls through my belly, clenching insistently at the emptiness. "Not to mention food. I need that to live, you know. Unless your willing to share yours." I cock my head as a thought occurs to me. "What kind of food do you eat anyway?" 

Vaun grimaces, hands adjusting and readjusting on the wheel. "Same as all strigoi." 

"Okay. And what's that?" 

"Nothing you would be willing to eat."

Now he's being evasive. Is that a bad sign? "What, do you eat live kittens or something? Raw sewage? Battery acid?" I snort a little, feeling funny saying it since it does sound ridiculous. 

The road thumps lightly beneath us every other second, a rhythm almost, hissing as rubber rolls against asphalt. I'm still waiting for a response, watching Vaun from the corner of my eye. Something about his lack of a straight answer sits with me the wrong way. Maybe I don't need to know. But I want to. That's why I asked. Chances are, very little about this whole mess will do anything but unsettle me, terrify me, make me wish I'd stayed ignorant. But I think I'm a little beyond denial now, and if I'm involved I need to know everything, no matter how much it makes me want to crawl in a deep hole and never come out. Especially the scary stuff.

"Blood," he finally says, simply and audibly.

The small grin falls from my face as if wiped right off. My eyes slide away from his visage, redirect to the window at my right. I swallow thickly. "Human blood?" A part of me hopes he doesn't answer this time. Though, I suppose, that would be an answer all it's own. 

"Yes." He glances at me then, it's brief but I can feel the weight of it, searching, inquiring. "Strigoi need human blood to survive." 

Lips pursed, I nod as I ingest the information, my head feeling a little bit wobbly on my shoulders. "Do you... _feed_— " the word makes me cringe "—from living people? Unwilling donors?" I squeeze my arms tighter around myself, bracing for the gross truth.

He sighs lowly, as if already certain I'll hate the truth. "We can discuss this later, once you're more accustomed to—" 

I whip around to face him, determined to keep him talking. My hands grip the dashboard and headrest until my fingers hurt. "We can talk about it  now ! You don't get to decide the boundaries to what I am and am not privy to." He seems dubious about that last part, but I take a deep breath and don't give him the chance for rebuttal. "Are those you get blood from just random people off the street? Do they volunteer or are they forced? Do you feed straight from them or draw the blood for later? How much do you need to sustain yourself? Are the donors permanently altered? Do they experience psychological damage?" My breath hitches, heart drumming in a rapid tempo. "Do they even make it out alive?" 

Vaun's silence is infuriating, and I have to push myself back into my seat before I make another attempt at attacking him. With him driving, I'm not entirely sure it would end well. Not to mention he has the strength of nothing I've ever felt. I'd rather not be ejected through the nearest window while in a moving vehicle. Generally, I like to think I'm not a violent person, but something about being scared and in the dark puts me in a vulnerable enough position to strive to do physical harm in order to protect myself. It's the same sort of instinct that drives someone to throw obstacles in the way of a threat in order to gain a greater window to flee. It’s survival. 

Vaun pulls the SUV up to a curb in front of a cupcake shop with its front window shattered, putting it in park but not turning it off. His eyes slide to meet mine, and I'm reminded just how strange and eerie his gaze really is. Unnatural. Beastly. Inhuman. 

"Strigoi need fresh human blood to sustain them." He removes his hands from the wheel to straighten his gloves. "Ideally, we feed from the source. The fresher the blood is, the longer we can go without; Sun Hunters that is. Average strigoi will feed at just about any opportunity they're given." 

"And the...sources? What happens to them?" Tightness curls through my shoulders and back muscles, as if my body already knows I won't like the answer. 

Vaun replaces his hands on the steering wheel, gripping then releasing his fingers several times. "If they don't die, they turn." He looks at me. 

My eyes bulge. "So you're fucking vampires!" I laugh, harsh and unattractive. "And here I was starting to think you were aliens." I wipe at tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. "So this means that strigoi are spreading so quickly because they are mindless gluttons?" If they all were as self-controlled as Vaun, would any of this even be happening? 

"Yes and no."

"Meaning...?" 

Vaun turns off the ignition and grabs his rifle from then back seat before he steps out of the car, leaving me to hurriedly unbuckle and yank the seatbelt from around me and follow him out onto the sidewalk. He stands before the demolished front of the cupcake shop, once decorated with cute window decals and a glossy pastel blue door now destroyed and reduced to piles of glass and splintered wood and warped metal, similar to many of the buildings we've passed. The shop next door has its overhanging sign speared into the front window, hanging by a single wire. One across the street has a suspiciously dark red tint smeared across the door barely holding onto its bolts. 

"Is this what you wanted to show me?" I ask, toeing at a to-go coffee cup lid flattened on the ground. 

"Inside," Vaun says, slinging the strap of his rifle across his chest so the gun rests at his back. 

Something foreboding pricks at the base of my scalp. "Will you really need that...?" 

He glances at me, face serious, nodding once. "Just because it's daytime doesn't mean they aren't a threat." He turns to me and unclips one of several pockets on his pants, removing a wicked-looking knife with a blade half the length of my forearm. "You need to be armed too, just in case." 

I eye the knife from inches away, an uncomfortable smile attached to my face, almost disbelieving. "Uh..." 

Vaun takes the blade into his hand and flips it to offer me the handle. "I doubt you'll have to use it at all, but your safety is paramount."

"I wouldn't say that..." I start to say as I lift my gaze, but choke the words back at the look on his face. 

Somehow a trick of the placement of his hood and the position of the early morning sun sends a soft beam of light across his eyes, just enough not to hurt. Crimson red glows from a wide round iris, not just catching the light but almost reflecting it, like a ruby pulled raw from the earth, glinting dark and deep and pulling... Enthralling. Determined. Profoundly genuine. His expression is almost empty but those eyes... They say more than he's willing to express in mere words. They meet mine, wide and flickering back and forth, urging me to understand, to see things his way. 

"Okay," is what I say instead, soft and breathy. I take the knife from his palm, fingers gripping the handle. It's heavier than it looks. Light winks off the silver blade, sliding down the sharp edge as I turn it in my hand. 

Vaun turns, breaking some connection like the snap of a cord pulled too tight. He steps towards the door of the cupcake shop. In broad daylight, I'm able to see his gun more clearly hanging at his back. It's nothing I've ever seen before. That isn't to say I'm some expert on guns, but I don't think typical firearms use darts instead of bullets. Jutting out from the place I think normal bullets would be inserted if the gun were a normal rifle is an individual cylindrical capsule, clear in color and holding some sort of shimmering gray fluid, almost metallic in its appearance. 

Vaun pushes the door open as much as the warped frame will allow. Darkness is thick like ink inside, barely penetrated by the sunlight, just a well of black. Even with the knife in my hand, I don't feel safe going in. It won't do me much good against shadows. And if strigoi really are in there, I have no way of knowing how to defend myself against them. How they move, how they might attack. Vaun said they aren't typically active during daylight hours but that isn't reassuring enough. 

The wariness must be clear on my face because when he turns to me he says, "I'll be ahead of you. If you stay close you'll be fine." He pulls out the flashlight from another pocket, this time from his vest, and holds it out to me. "This outing is just for you to see what strigoi are, remember. No action today. Hopefully."

I nod a little shakily, taking the proffered flashlight in my other hand. 

Vaun watches me click the light on then back off to test the battery. "Ready?" 

I inhale deeply. "Yeah." 

He nods once, looks me over, and turns, stepping into the dark shop first. I click the flashlight on again and shuffle forward. Before I can lose my nerve, I press inside, and I'm swallowed by darkness. 


	8. Chapter 8

The shop is cramped. It appeared bigger from the outside. Debris from trashed furniture litters the linoleum floor; it glitters with piles of glass from the smashed display counters when I pass the flashlight around the room. Glass crunches under our feet with each careful step we take. Vaun remains ahead, scanning the store, but it's clear no one—strigoi or human—is in here besides us. 

"The back room," he says, gesturing towards the far wall. I direct the light to the single door behind what was once the wide and sturdy display counter that's now all but demolished with remnants of confectionary goods mashed amongst the glass and metal. Smears of frosting in various colors decorate the walls like sugary art, but the door is nearly untouched. It's the most intact object in here. 

Vaun steps over the splintered remains of what must have been a cute wooden table set now in pieces. I follow close behind, trying to imitate his easily quiet movements. A softly hissed gasp shoots from my mouth as the toe of my shoe catches on the jutting leg of a destroyed chair and I trip forward, a curse caught on my tongue. Neither of my hands are free; without thinking, I drop both the flashlight and the knife and prepare to catch myself on the nearest object, praying it won't pierce skin or break my hand. An arm catches me around the waist, forcing an  _oof!_ from my lips. 

My chest heaves a few times, retrieving the breath pushed out of me as I basically hang with my face just a few feet above from meeting the shard-covered floor, one foot barely still touching the ground. I lower my other leg from its awkward position sticking out into the air and securely place my hands on the forearm at my stomach to ensure I don't tilt forward. Vaun's arm is firm and tight and reminds me of the potential strength it wields. I'm pulled upright, twisting a little in the process. My chest nearly touches his, and I can't bring myself to look at him, instead awkwardly placing my gaze on the flashlight that's rolled a few feet away. Heat crawls up my neck to my cheeks in an embarrassing display, but it's worse than I've ever felt, nearly burning. This close to him, his chest inches away, somehow it's warmer than normal. 

He ensures I'm steady and balanced on my feet before sliding his hand from my back, his arm from my waist. I wordlessly bend down to pick up the flashlight, careful not to knick any fingers on the scattered glass. The knife skid away a bit further, and I have to reach to get it. 

"Be more cautious," Vaun warns. "Please." 

"I'll try," I say, still fighting off the residual chagrin. It's the please that earns him a, "Sorry." 

He tilts his head to peer at me. "You haven't inconvenienced me. An apology isn't needed, I just want you to be careful. It would be counterproductive for you to end up hurt when we're only here for you to learn." 

All I can do is nod in agreement before pointing the flashlight's beam back toward the door. Taking that as the end of it, Vaun refocuses on our task. We stop just before the closed door. He turns his head, nearly pressing his ear to it; listening, I think. After a few still and silent moments, he places his hand on the knob and turns, easing the door open slowly. It makes barely a sound and I'm grateful. Any noise right now might make my heart jolt into a panic. My chest is nearly thrumming with the quickening tempo of my heart already as it is. I'm still not sure what to expect here. If all strigoi have the potential to be civil like Vaun it'll be considerably less of a shock. But if that were the case I doubt he'd have brought me here to begin with. If they were anything like him at all I doubt the city would be in the state that it is. So, to be on the safe side, I hope for the best but prepare for the worst and brace both my body and mind for whatever is beyond the door. 

I keep the flashlight pointed down even as we step through the doorway. The floor changes from shiny linoleum to smooth concrete. Somehow it seems colder in here, the air drier. Slowly, I raise the light to sweep over the room, taking note of the clean counters and organized arsenal of kitchen appliances, a strange contrast to the scarce metal shelves lining the back wall. None of them are in disarray the way everything else is behind us at the front of the shop. 

The entrance is too narrow for us to stand side-by-side so I remain at Vaun's back, leaning only slightly to get a basic look. My footsteps stay barely two feet behind him as he enters. Only a couple paces in he pauses, and I stare at his back, too wary to ask if he sees something, to look closer for myself. He pulls his gun around his front to grasp it while he scans the space, and my stomach tightens. The knife remains lowered at my side but my fingers adjust it in my palm for a more secure grip. 

The layout of the room is nearly a perfect square, but there's a wall to the right of the entrance that extends a couple feet then turns in a sharp corner. Beyond that, I don't know where else something could be lurking in this room. Maybe Vaun is thinking the same thing because he turns his head just enough to meet my eyes with the sort of look someone gives to ask if they're ready for something that might be frightening. 

A fine line of tension tightens up my spine. Suddenly I don't want to go any further. Surely I don't have to engage with any strigoi just to be aware of them. Vaun assured me there wouldn't be any interaction if he could help it. But, honestly, I don't know if I even  want to see them. I thought I'd want to, but my curiosity is quickly being eaten away by fear. After learning so much already I'm not certain I'm ready. 

Vaun seems to think otherwise. He slips around the corner and out of sight. Somehow, standing alone isn't any better, and I have to force my legs to move. Pins-and-needles prickle at my muscles. He's stopped just a little beyond the corner where the wall dips back to make the room into a proper square. I step up next to him and keep the flashlight lowered near our feet. The beam of light is strong enough to create a bright yellow pool that spills towards the meeting of two walls. Just beyond the circle of light is...something. Shapes that are darker than just a lack of light and more palpable than shadow are huddled together. If I look just the right way I swear I see movement, a gentle shift, a sway. Bodies. Crouched in clusters. In the dark I can count only three or four, but there might be more. I just don't want to see for sure. I want to turn and walk right back out. Out of this room. Out of the destroyed shop. Outside. 

Vaun looks at me. I can feel it more than see it since I've returned my gaze to the flashlight. 

"They're asleep," he says quietly, nearly a murmur. "Unless we make any loud noise or disturb them directly they won't wake up. The flashlight won't do anything. So look. You need to see." 

I want to refute that, but even if I want him to be wrong, I still have doubts that tells me he's right. After all, he's an actual strigoi and I'm merely a normal human with no real knowledge or experience about any of this going on. He's been living it for an amount of time I'm not even aware of. This scares me; it's so beyond my realm of understanding that I don't want to believe what my own eyes capture and relay to my brain. But I'm here right this moment, still being exposed to what should be impossible, should belong only in fiction and myth. 

I don't know how this will change me, and that scares me too. Despite the tremors in my bones, however, I need to know. Uncle Eldritch wanted to protect me from this whole mess, but he also let me remain ignorant, which could be just as dangerous. I owe it to myself to be informed and ready. 

With a deep breath to brace myself, I sink my teeth into my lip and lift the flashlight's beam to direct it into the corner. 

A hiss of air releases from my lungs as I stare wide-eyed. 

There's five of them. They look like Vaun; pale, pointed ears, no hair at all regardless of gender... 

But they also don't look like him. 

There's something especially primitive about how they press together, as if they're sharing and retaining warmth. Each of them twitch every now and then, and each time I have to fight off a flinch. The smallest of the group resides in the middle of the pack and can't be much older than five or six. Whatever clothing they wear is in tatters. Most of them bear dark red smears on both fabric and skin that looks dried and chipped. I swallow hard and redirect the flashlight to the floor. 

"Okay," I mutter.

Vaun is looking at me again. Rather, I don't think he's stopped, watching me and my reaction. "This is strigoi at their calmest and most vulnerable when they aren't organized," he says. "When they're awake and mobile, there are only two things you can do: outrun them, or terminate them." His fingers tighten slightly around his gun; it isn't held up any further than his waist but he still holds it attentively, prepared but not twitchy. 

Eyes flickering towards the group of strigoi—they're quiet, I notice, emitting very little noise beyond breathing, and an odd soft rattling sound beneath it—I ask carefully, "So, what now?"

Vaun looks from me, to the sleeping strigoi, then back to me, briefly eyeing the knife in my hand. "You need to learn how to defend yourself against strigoi." 


	9. Chapter 9

I squint at Vaun. His words roil their way through my brain, slowly processing into some semblance of comprehension. 

Defend myself? As in, what, _fighting_ these things? 

"Isn't there some limit to how much crazy shit a single person can be exposed to in a single day?" I ask exasperatedly. Claws of hunger still drag through my stomach. The emptiness in my belly combined with lack of rest results in a fatigue similar to that which I haven't experienced since college. Somehow I feel worse now since I have no clear indication of where my next meal will come from or when I'll actually be able to get some decent shuteye. Knowing what I know now, I'm not sure I'll sleep well for some time. 

"I'm aware that too much strain on a human physically and mentally can have unfortunate effects," he replies while guiding me back the way we came towards the shop front. "I don't expect you to do anything further until you've been fed and gotten proper rest." 

Thank God. Relief eases through me. A brief reprieve from all of this is likely the best way for me to swallow it down easier, absorb it more wholly. "In order to rest well I'll need to shower, and in order to shower I need my stuff which is at my apartment." He pauses and gives me a blank look just before we reach the exit that says, "you're still hung up on that?" Honestly, I'm not expecting an answer I'll like. What are the odds of Vaun allowing me to return to a possibly infested apartment complex? I purse my lips together in a small scowl. Then again, he doesn't control me or what I do. All he's said—or rather, the Ancients have decreed—is that the Sun Hunters are going to protect me since I saved a couple of them. Nothing was said about being put under lock and key as if this plague is after me personally. I'm at risk like everyone else, but since Vaun is with me it'll be easier and possibly quicker. 

I tell him as much. He seems to genuinely think it over, head turned away from the significantly heavier glow of sunlight glimmering around the edges of the storefront window. 

"Come on," I press, "I'll be much more pleasant company once I've been able to scrub myself down and am wearing fresh clothes. It won't take me long to grab what I need." 

"We have the supplies you'd need—"

"But probably not  _everything._ I'm a human female with bodily processes that require specific products." I say that last as a conspiratorial whisper, really hoping he gets my meaning. It would be pretty embarrassing to have to explain what menstruation is right now.

Thankfully Vaun doesn't press the issue, either being aware of what I mean or not finding it important enough to need more details. "Fine. Well stop by your apartment and collect your things." I start to thank him when he puts up a hand with one finger extended. "But this is the first and last time we go there. It's not important enough of an endeavor to need to sweep the whole building for strigoi, and we don't have the time." 

I want to argue not going back at all but decide that keeping my mouth shut will help me more right now. We can always discuss it more later when we're not standing in a strigoi den. Right now I'm getting what I want so I shouldn't ruin it. 

I nod in agreement, breathing a quick, "Okay." 

*******

"Five minutes is all you get to find and pack what you need then we're back out." 

Fair enough. Since neither of us know what may or may not be going on in any of the fifteen floors worth of apartments it would be safer to be in and out as quickly as possible. I'm already forming a list of what I need in my mind, queueing where each item is and determining the best and most convenient order to gather them in. 

Vaun takes the lead again, gun gripped in his hands once more as we move through one of the back exits and into the building after I input the key code to unlock the door. The hallway is clean and smells the way it's always smelled: light and lemony with a small tinge of vanilla scented air freshener that sprays routinely from evenly spaced canisters braced to the walls in the halls. The first floor isn't really the first floor, it's more like a lobby where the mailboxes are kept, fashioned into a neat lounge area with cream-colored leather couches and matching recliners arranged around a deep red wood coffee table shined to a gleam. A flat screen TV is bracketed to the wall where it usually plays the news, but now it displays nothing but boiling static, emitting white noise from a low volume. 

I step forward to switch the television off, and the silence that replaces the noise is so complete I have to release a gentle breath to make sure I can hear it. It's usually pretty quiet around here, but it's the sort that is comfortable and welcoming. Something about the silence now unsettles me.

"Seventh floor," I tell Vaun, instinctively keeping my tone low. 

We approach the elevator and I press the up arrow, but Vaun walks a little further and opens the stairwell door. He peeks in then looks at me and gestures his head inside. 

"It's longer but safer to use the stairs," he explains. "There appears to be windows so there'll be no strigoi hiding."

I look quizzically from the closed elevator doors to the one leading to the stairs. "How is it safer?" 

"The power could go off at any time." He doesn't need to say anything more than that since I'd much rather have my legs sting with lactic acid than be trapped in a non-functioning elevator, but he adds anyway, "The Master may have control of the city's power generators." 

"Oh, great." I abandon the elevator and join Vaun in the stairwell. We begin our climb, our steps light and careful, passing windows glowing with light at each landing with doors that lead to their respective floor. 

We make it to the third floor before my breaths turn to soft huffs. My heart is beating heavier with the exertion. It's a little embarrassing but it's clear my physical fitness isn't exactly in peak condition. I usually exercise regularly, just not recently. Not to mention, cardio really isn't my strong suit. 

Upon reaching the seventh floor, I gulp a few deep breaths and watch as Vaun pulls the door open and leans out only enough to check the hall on both sides. When he steps out I follow and direct him to my apartment. At the door he turns and faces the hall, keeping an eye out while I pull out the extra key I hid taped to the back of the small welcome sign hanging on the peephole. The door sighs open with the turn of the locks and twist of the knob. I begin to walk in when Vaun grips my shoulder and eases me out of the way so he can enter first. Gun up, he scans the perimeter of my humble apartment. It's not small, but it's certainly big enough for a single occupant; two rooms, one full bathroom, a kitchen, living room, and spacious balcony right across from the entrance. The drapes are drawn which I think makes it a little easier for Vaun to maneuver around the area. I don't know why he'd suspect any strigoi in here though. The door was locked with two locks, one up top and one in the knob itself, and unless they can climb walls and use locks themselves then I don't think we have much to worry about. 

When he moves to inspect the rooms I follow, closing the door behind me. He checks the extra room first, which I just use for storage mainly—it's basically just another closet. I lean against the wall in the hallway until he moves to my bedroom, pushing the door open with a gentle shove. I step in when he nods at me, walking around to stand at the doorway. 

"Five minutes," he says. As if I'd forget I only have that long to gather everything I could need for who knows how long.

I get to work, crossing the hall to the closet room to pick up my duffle bag. It's the biggest one I own, and the only reason I didn't use it when I went to stay with Uncle Eldritch is because I didn't think I'd be there long enough to need enough things that warranted such a large bag. 

I drop the bag in the middle of my bedroom and gather my clothes, the ones I know I'll wear most often—long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, jeans, and thick leggings—to combat the cold not only due to the early winter weather but also because that underground bunker-hideout possesses a chill I won't be able to combat without proper clothes. 

I pull out shoes next; a pair of boots and sneakers. I place them next to the bag while I roll and stuff one of my fleece blankets in next to my clothes. Toiletries are next, and I move to squeeze past Vaun when there's a knock, heavy and abrupt, and I jolt. The noise isn't a mere rapping of knuckles like on a door, it's more of a hard thump, as if something solid were thrown against a wall. It came from somewhere near the far end of my hallway. Just on the other side is my neighbors apartment. 

Another thump, lighter this time, accompanied by a scuffle like when something is dragged across a wall. There's a faraway sound like something metallic hitting the ground, followed by a heavy rumble through the floor. 

Vaun shifts behind me, and it's then I realize I've jumped right into him. The entire side of my body is pressed into his front. I can feel the acute discomfort of his gun wedged between us and digging into my waist. He lowers his gaze to meet mine which must project a mixture of alarm and uncertainty while his is almost the complete opposite: collected and prepared. Judging by the narrowed state of his eyes and the way his head turns as if to listen to something far away, he has a better idea of what might be going on over there than I do. I step away to give him room when he moves for the front door. 

I realize belatedly that he's going to investigate the sounds next door. The rifle is still cradled in his hands but now it's gripped with purpose, with the intent to be used, possibly to kill. A horrible thought strikes me right between the eyes: is lethal force the only way to stop strigoi? They're apparently very dangerous, but they were people once—possibly still could be; they were infected with an illness, so maybe they can be cured. I can guarantee someone out there is working on fixing this whole mess, finding a vaccine and reversing its effects. But until it is discovered and distributed, how many people will be hurt? The parasite, a type of worm Vaun had said, takes over the host and transforms them into what I saw in the cupcake shop. They were asleep then, but when they're mobile and active, are they really that dangerous? Dangerous enough to be forced to kill? Uncle Eldritch clearly thought so, otherwise why weaponize his own office? Vaun believes so too, and, frankly, I take his opinion on the strigoi over my uncle's considering he is one—has lived as one for what I suspect must be a long time, perhaps even longer than any human can live.

There's a peculiar heaviness in his deep crimson eyes I've never seen on anyone else, a well of experiences and emotions I can't even begin to comprehend. Every time he looks at me I feel it like something alive fluttering along my skin, beating with a pulse of its own. It's eerie as hell but also... comforting in a way, I guess. In the short time I've been around him I've grown considerably more at ease than I have with normal people given more time. Maybe it's the promise of protecting me against the threat of strigoi running rampant through the city. Maybe it's something else, something about the pace of it all, everything coming and happening so quickly that I'm forced to adapt. 

There's still so much I don't understand, and watching Vaun prepare to confront the noises we just heard with a type of calm I don't possess makes my chest surge with a sort of anticipatory restlessness that just might be the closest I’ll get to bravery. Vaun looks through the peephole before carefully pulling the door open. He doesn't tell me to stay put. He must think I'm too scared to even attempt coming along. Usually he'd be right. Unfortunately for both of us, that isn't the case this time. 

He's already stepped out into the hallway when I follow, catching the door while it's still easing shut. The circular lighting fixtures lined intermittently along the ceiling are bright and leave no room for shadows in the hallway, somehow emphasizing its emptiness, now considerably more unnerving than normal. I don't need the flashlight anymore here but I do still have the knife, now wielded at my side in a tight grip. Granted, I don't know how to use it properly as a weapon, but, if things go bad, swinging and stabbing might be my best bet. 

Vaun stands across the hall from the door of the apartment that the sounds are coming from; somehow they're easier to hear out here. Scuffles of sound and muffled movement emit from somewhere beyond the door. Maybe it is just my neighbor; some single college dude around my age if I remember right. He's new so I never got to know him before moving into Stoneheart. Maybe he's moving things around, rearranging furniture. Another possibility is that's it's a break-in and what we're hearing is some thief going through the apartment and destroying stuff on the way. Looting seems to be happening a lot more since the outbreak. The likelihood of someone getting into the building is pretty small though, what with the security cameras and key code to even get in through the front door. What else could it be? Strigoi, maybe, but Vaun said they sleep during the day and can't come in any contact with sunlight so what are the odds of one being active to—what?—invade and trash some random apartment? Unless...

A jarring thud yanks my attention back to the door where it nearly jostles on its hinges from the impact of something big. Vaun is standing prepared, rifle raised to shoot the moment a threat presents itself.

My heart pulses against the back of my tongue, making my chest feel tight with its increasing tempo. A very human-sounding grunt suddenly comes from the other side of the door, followed by an odd ear-grating screech that sounds anything but. Vaun prepares to charge in, approaching the door until he's only a couple feet away. 

Neither of us are prepared for when the door flies open on its own and two figures come spilling out to land in a heap in the threshold of the doorway. One is on their back, thrashing beneath the one on top to avoid what looks like some sort of long fleshy tentacle extending from its mouth as it attempts to snap at the struggling person like a viper. 

Oh God. 

My eyes take it all in at once: the pale skin, baldness, pointed ears...

Strigoi. Awake and very much active. 

I'm frozen useless as the mane of long blonde hair belonging to a woman splays wildly across the floor under her while she flails away from the pale creature pinning her down with incredible strength. I badly want to help, feel the need to shove the blade in my trembling hand into the strigoi, to just get it off of her. But my body won't move, my mind taking in everything in an instant like a camera flash while still unable to truly grasp and understand what I'm seeing.

"Get the fuck off of me!" The woman shrieks as the weird tentacle writhing from the strigoi's gaping mouth continues to strike at her, trying to land a blow on bare skin I think, seeing as her gloves and coat seem to be made of some thick material.

It all happens so fast, in the span of a few seconds; there's a small crack in the air, a light whistle surging past, and the strigoi suddenly jerks violently, releasing an ungodly screech before falling on its own back and off of the woman. It convulses on the floor, clawing at its throat as if trying to reach beneath the skin by digging with nothing but its nails. Only a few moments pass before its movements slow to a sluggish pace, a pathetic wail falling from its mouth; it sounds animalistic but this is definitely no animal. The strigoi twitches a few more times before going utterly still and silent. A single dart juts out from its neck, an empty cylinder glinting at the end. 

Time catches up and moves normally again in a single breath. The woman scrambles to her feet, scooping up a long blade from somewhere behind the door, one longer than mine, a machete I think. It isn't until she raises that blade towards Vaun and his rifle that I realize she believes he's a threat too. 

"Wait, wait!" I intervene, breathless, finally regaining control of my body and stepping out further into the hallway so she can see me clearly. My knife gets placed in my back pocket, and I raise my hands slightly to show we mean no harm. She might believe it more if Vaun placed his gun down. She must be terrified; I'm still shaken just from witnessing the incident. Her machete remains held defensively in front of her; looks like this isn't the first time she's had to use it. Thankfully she doesn't shift the blade in my direction, but her eyes snap distrustfully to me, burning bright and blue and experienced.

I close in and stand next to Vaun who still has his rifle raised, not intending to shoot I don't think, but the threat is there: if she makes to hurt him he won't hesitate to defend himself. "We aren't going to hurt you," I say. "He's not like them." I gesture to the strigoi splayed in the entryway. "He's on our side." It feels so weird saying that. 

Vaun glances at me with this look like he's surprised I showed up when he ordered me not to and is still unhappy I did anyway. Hell, I've surprised myself. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" The woman asks, an accent lacing her demanding words. 

"Uh," I cock my head towards my apartment, "I live here." 

She shakes her head, placing her machete into a sheath attached to her belt. "No, no, you've got to leave. This whole place is crawling with strigoi." 

Both Vaun and I look at each other, me startled that she knows what strigoi even are and Vaun appearing like he's unsurprised by the news. 

"How do you know? We haven't seen any on our way up." 

She taps her boot on the carpeted floor. "Basement." 

I shrug. "So? They're down there sleeping, we're way up here. Just a few more minutes and we'll be gone." 

The woman just shakes her head insistently, lips pursed. "No. Not sleeping." Her eyes flicker to Vaun. "Not anymore." 

I begin to ask what she means when Vaun's gloved hand closes around my arm, not tight enough to hurt but to warn. "Something woke them up." 

"What?" I ask, head whipping between the two. "How?" There's still far too much I'm unaware of, and knowing there are other humans far more privy to what's going on than me pisses me off. Being swept away and kept in Stoneheart has blinded me, and I'm angry for it. 

"Doesn't matter right now, we need to get out of here."

"Of course it matters," is what I want to say, but Vaun has gotten that peculiar faraway look on his face that tells me he hears something human ears can't. A sense of foreboding races down my skin, emanating from his hand on my arm. 

Vaun blinks, and his eyes have gone dark and urgent. "Stairs. Now." 

I don't have time to question him because he's pulling me towards the stairwell entrance at a fast clip. He only lets go when he's sure I'm following steadily. The blonde woman is at my back, mere steps behind. Vaun shoves open the door and leans out to look down the winding stairs leading down the levels of the building before ushering us through. We race down the steps at a pace that has me flying from the adrenaline fueled by sudden fear and anticipation. If there really are more of what I just saw in that hallway flooding the basement, I don't want to be anywhere near this place. 

We've made it nearly six floors down at a nonstop decline when the door leading to the stairs flies open at the landing. Several figures shove through, none of them human, not now. Their mouths stretch open impossibly wide and those disgusting appendages writhe towards us, dripping with saliva. I shrink back instinctively and nearly fall flat on the stairs, but the woman catches my arm long enough for me to gain my balance. 

Vaun already has his gun up and releases more of those darts, downing two then three of the strigoi in seconds. I didn't even see him reload. "Back up, now!" He orders, clocking one of the strigoi in the jaw with the butt of the rifle with a sickening crack. 

The blonde woman has unsheathed her machete and swings at a strigoi that manages to get its mouth-tentacle past Vaun. The blade slices right through, leaving behind a sizzling sound and wisps of smoke. The strigoi yanks back, pawing at its mouth with a wail before the machete comes around again and removes its head from its shoulders. It slumps to the ground, spurting some sort of white fluid from the stump between the shoulders where its head used to be. Before I even have time to be baffled or properly sickened the blonde woman is pulling me back up the stairs with her. Vaun fires off another few shots before following, lunging up the stairs four at a time. 

We shove out into the fifth floor hallway. Vaun slams the door closed and keeps a tight grip on the handle while pulling to keep it shut, looking around for something to keep it that way long enough for us to escape. I whip my head around, searching. Unfortunately the hallway is empty, save for a slender plant nearby next to one of the apartment doors. 

I'm breathing hard and I haven't even done anything useful. The blonde rushes to each door ahead, tugging to see if any of them are unlocked; maybe to check if they have anything to use to hold the stairway door closed. An abrupt bang against the door makes me jump, and I stare wide-eyed at Vaun with my heart in my throat, but he's already looking at me, his face set with a grim expression I really don't like. 

"Take her through the fire escape." He says it so calmly I'm unsure I heard correctly. 

"W-what?" I glance at the blonde woman who just looks at him with one brow arched, perhaps not keen on being ordered around by strangers. But, strangely, she doesn't argue, reaching out to grasp my wrist. I pull away and step towards Vaun, only to startle and stop when another crash sounds behind the door. Soon they're going to knock down the entire damn thing. "What about you? You can't just stay here and hold the door closed forever." 

He shakes his head, adjusts his grip on the door handle. "I'm strigoi too, remember. If they aren't being controlled right now they'll ignore me once you both are clear of the area."

"And if they are being controlled?" My voice has become timid, quiet, finally sounding as frightened as I feel. 

The corner of his strange mouth curls upward ever so slightly for just a small second. "You'll be fine," he assures. "I'll find you." The door shudders with the weight of too many bodies colliding with the metal, and Vaun grunts, bracing himself with a slight grimace. "Go!" 

The blonde woman grabs my arm forcefully and I let her drag me to the window at the far end of the hall. She tears aside the decorative curtain and shoves it open until the edge cracks against the sill and urges me out onto the metal platform. I brace myself against the railing while she climbs out behind me and risk a glance over my shoulder. Far down the hall Vaun bucks with the door, determined to hold it shut until we're out of sight. 

The last glimpse I have of him is while I'm descending the ladder. Just a final peek when I see the door give, and he's thrown forward into the wall, swarmed by a hoard of strigoi. Gone from my sight. 


	10. Chapter 10

I'm still attempting to catch my breath while the blonde woman guides me through the streets. Her machete has returned to its place at her hip but her guard doesn't seem to have been let down much. She walks with purpose, her strides long and even. Out here in the sun she seems more at ease, more confident; then again, who wouldn't be since strigoi can't move around freely in sunlight. 

With her moving ahead of me in broad daylight, I'm able to get a good look at her. Her height appears above average for a woman, around 5'11" I'd guess. She's thin too, in the way someone who is naturally thin looks: tight and just simply lacking in fat or muscle, though she doesn't necessarily look bony or scrawny even with the clothes, merely slender—dare I say willowy. Hers is the type of body plastered on every magazine and envied at pools and beaches, to be the goal of a weight loss journey. Once upon a time I would have done just about anything for a body like that. Wavy hair reaches her mid-back and is that color where just about every shade of blonde meets somewhere in the middle, and in the sunlight it teases more gold and sandy blonde. I imagine my own hair is a nightmare right now; strands have fallen free of the braid and tickle at my cheeks, forcing me to tuck them back every so often. It's going to be a nightmare to brush out. I'm suddenly sorely reminded of my lack of a comb, what with my whole bag being left behind in my apartment. 

A very potent sting blooms in my chest all of a sudden, abrupt and aching. My lip gets trapped between my teeth as a shuddering sigh rattles from my lungs. Guilt. Raw and consuming. Vaun was trapped in my apartment complex because I just  needed my own shampoo. An ugly snort gets caught in my throat, and the blonde woman checks over her shoulder. Something falls over her face and she slows, then stops. Her hand lands on my shoulder, not hurrying this time, just a gentle weight. It isn't until she touches me that I realize how tense I am. 

"You alright?" Her tone reveals how awkward she feels, comforting a stranger, but it's also soft, careful. 

What am I supposed to say? I don't even know if I should say anything, so I don't. A mere shrug is all I can give. 

"You're crying, love." She removes her hand from my shoulder and uses her sleeve to dab lightly at my flushed cheeks. 

_When did that start?_ I push my glasses up on my head and scrub my palms against my eyes growing itchy and dry. "Sorry."

A lovely smile widens at her lips. Not patronizing or pitying, but knowing. It's a schemer's smile. Right now though it's just this side of teasing. "He'll be okay, you know."

Brows pinched, I squint at her with my glasses still perched on my head. "What?" 

"Your strigoi friend. He'll be fine." She leans close and her voice lowers conspiratorially even though it's just the two of us standing in the middle of the street. A few other pedestrians wander past, though they pay us no mind. "He said he'd find you." She whispers it in a way that insinuates something more intimate than intended. 

Startled, I recoil from her, cheeks burning. What is she implying? 

She leans back and releases a full throaty laugh, smiling widely while her hands fall to her hips. "Don't worry, love. I'm playing with you." Her head tilts, sending her silky blonde locks sliding over her shoulder while her expression sobers. "In all seriousness though, whatever that dude is, he seems to care enough to maybe have died for you." 

My stomach plunges and I stare at her. "You said he'd be fine..." It sounds childish and naive, but honestly I could have used the reassurance. 

She shrugs, crossing her arms. "Maybe he will be. I've never seen a strigoi like him before, one willing to protect and sacrifice for a human." She turns and starts walking again, this time going slow enough for me to keep up and stride next to her. "Honestly if you weren't there I would have tried to kill him." 

Somehow I can believe that. "Who are you anyway?" 

"Ah, you can call me Dutch." 

"So, where are we going, Dutch?" After walking for nearly ten minutes in one direction away from the apartment complex I've gained enough sense to finally ask. 

"Somewhere safe," she says. "For humans." 

"Where exactly?"

"Isn't someone suddenly curious?" She coos with another coy smile. 

It isn't just curiosity. If Vaun made it out of the apartment complex, he needs to know where I am. I adjust my glasses back to perch on the bridge of my nose. Why I'm suddenly so worried about being back under his thumb is beyond me, but he did just save my life. While that may make us even now, something uncomfortable is growing in my belly. After all, I didn't necessarily risk my life to save his, but he just might have to save mine. It seems unfair somehow. Did I really do it all for nothing? 

"Don't think about it too hard," Dutch insists. "Strigoi are pretty tenacious, and your guy seemed even more so, what with the military gear and all."

I can only nod. Maybe she'll stop talking about it if I just agree with what she says. "What were you doing in there anyway?" It's the first thing I think to ask that might divert her attention.

She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket, swinging her arms a little as she walks. "Looking for someone."

"Who?"

"A woman. (Y/N) (L/N)." She pronounces the name carefully, as if it's her first time saying it aloud. "She might know something that could help us—me and my friends." 

I stop listening after the first sentence. I stare at her, meeting her arctic blue eyes, uncertain I heard correctly. "Say that name again?"

A small frown pulls at her full lips, but she does, and ice shoots up my spine as if I've been impaled by an icicle. Hearing my name from this stranger's mouth isn't nearly the oddest thing I've experienced today, but in its context it's certainly near the top. 

She leans in slightly, brows furrowed. "Huh? Speak up."

I realize I'm mumbling, and I have to swallow a couple times to be able to speak clearly. "M-me." I say my name almost like a foreign taste on my tongue. "That's me."

The way her already generously large eyes widen to a near bulge would be hilarious in just about any other situation. Now it just looks troubling. Dutch takes a step back and looks at me, really looks at me; examining me from toe to head with an uncertain look on her face. I stand there, watching her take me in and feeling suddenly self-conscious. Something critical like suspicion slides behind her eyes and I stiffen.

"You. You're Eldritch Palmer's niece?" She doesn't say it scathingly, at least I don't think she intends to, but there's a definite echo of skepticism in her tone.

Hearing my relation to my uncle aloud sounds like an accusation and I hesitate to confirm. But Dutch keeps glaring at me until I finally nod. "Yeah, that's me..."

She laughs and it sounds harsh. Her hands clasp together. "So today wasn't a total bloody waste!"

I don't know what to say to that so I wait for her to calm back down. Something must occur to her because she suddenly stops and narrows her eyes at me. "How do I know you're not lying?" 

"Depends on why you were looking for me."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Alright, miss cheeky. Like I said, we need your help."

"Who's  we ?" 

Slender shoulders rise in a shrug. "A band of misfits just trying to ward off the end of the world." She says this so casually I have to gulp back the bark of appalled laughter that tries to hop from my mouth before my face pinches in dismay. "And why would you need me?" I don't have anything to offer. Nothing useful or of value. I'm pretty much just fodder, I only get in the way. 

Dutch lowers her eyes briefly, long lashes fluttering against high sculpted cheekbones. "You'll see, once you meet the others." She points a finger at me. "If you are who you say you are, that is." 

"How would I prove it?" I pat my hands down my body, emphasizing my empty pockets. "I don't have any ID, I just have my phone, but—" The device is plucked from my fingers the moment I pull it from my pocket. Dutch tries turning it on unsuccessfully. "It's dead," I finish. A sour pout puckers at her lips. "The charger was on my list of things to pick up while in my apartment."

Dutch looks at me, waves the phone between her thumb and pointer finger frivolously. "Fet might have a charger at his place. Luckily, that's where we're headed." 

"What good would it do anyway?" I ask. "Cell networks are down and there's no internet access anywhere." 

Something resembling sheepishness crosses Dutch's face, but before I can even begin to consider what it might mean, it's lost beneath the determination of a new resolve. "We'll figure something out." 

*******

Red Hook, Brooklyn is pretty easy to gain access into, all things considered. Partly because they already seem to know who Dutch is and partly due to us being uninfected. Yeah, they have a nifty way of figuring out if someone has contracted the virus. 

From what I've gathered, the worms containing the virus are actually visible underneath special lighting. A small hand-held UV light is passed over my face, neck, and arms right at the gate. Without Dutch, I might have had to wait for awhile before being granted entrance. That being said, the amount of people trying to get into Red Hook is astounding, to say the least. It's just a small residential island, but apparently it's virus-free and presently the HQ for a special police squad vowing to push back and contain the contagion one sector at a time. 

Dutch and her friends are helping that squad. That's where they are right now, or where some of them are. She said as much when we entered some sort of small building that reminds me of a firehouse.

I stand just inside the entrance, watching as she shucks off her beanie and tosses it onto the desk a few yards from the door. 

"Any word from Fet?" She asks someone I can't see, because certainly she isn't asking me a question I don't know the answer to. 

"He came and went," a new voice replies. My eyes rise to the second story where a pretty brunette woman stands on the landing, hands braced on the rail. "Seems we have a visitor." Her voice holds a slight accent, different than Dutch’s, and she looks down at me with a soft smile, though her lovely face appears weary, drained. 

"Ah." Dutch nods. She approaches to stand next to me, shoulder brushing mine. "Yeah. Nora, This might be the one we've been looking for." 

Nora's eyebrows rise, pleasantly surprised. "She is Palmer's niece?" She doesn't sound very impressed, but then, people who are exhibiting signs of exhaustion rarely do. I can see the dark circles beneath her eyes from down here. 

"We're going to find out," Dutch says, holding up the phone she still has in her possession. "You think Fet has a charger around here?" 

She begins to shake her head, then stops, peering down at us. "She says she's Palmer's niece but you don't believe her?" Her eyes move to me while she makes her way to the stairs and descends. "What's your name?" 

I don't see any reason not to, so I tell her. 

Nora gives Dutch a look that says,  _ What more do you want?  _

"You don't think people could be posing as her?" Dutch asks, uncertain. 

"Why would they?" She crosses her arms. "It isn't as if she's the lost princess Anastasia. She's a young woman who just so happens to be related to—"

"The most recent hurdle in our fight. If we're going to enlist her help, we need to be sure she is who she says she is." Dutch sounds resolute, driven enough for me to think she's right. Still, if I'm to help them at all, I deserve to know just what I'm helping them with. Would be counterproductive on my part to agree to do my part in the fight against strigoi only to end up on a platter being used as bait or for blackmail. 

Now that I think about it, Dutch hasn't assured me that nothing harmful would come to my person. For all I know, bringing me here could be more dangerous than just staying at Stoneheart. 

"—and you have some way to figure out who she is?" Nora is saying, remaining calm and collected but clearly exasperated by Dutch's insistence. 

Dutch grins, satisfied that she asked. "Hence, why I asked if you've seen a charger." 

Nora looks at the cell in Dutch's hand, considering something. "I think Zach has a similar phone." She gestures upstairs. "I'll go see if he has one." Her gaze returns to me, her eyes a dark and deep brown, beautiful and teeming with knowledge of things more insidious than I could create in my nightmares. "Make yourself comfortable. We have showers over there and a couple beds spread out in a few places. Food is in the cupboard and fridge. Help yourself, and we'll talk more in a bit when the others get back." She jogs back up the steps and disappears on the landing. 

Dutch turns to me as she pockets my phone. "So, hungry?" 

*******

I initially wanted to reject the offer of food, but my stomach immediately gave me away. After not having eaten—or drank—anything since before leaving Stoneheart, it's difficult to turn away the peanut butter sandwich and bottle of water that Dutch procures for me. It's not much, but it's definitely enough to stave off the pangs rattling in my belly. 

I give Dutch a grateful nod after downing the last few drops of water. My tongue and throat absorb the water greedily, and the sandwich settles nicely in my stomach. 

"Better?" She asks, chin cupped in her palm while she leans against the counter watching me.

"Mhm." I swipe my thumb across the corners of my mouth and suckle the crumbs found there. "Thanks." 

A delighted grin showcases straight pearly-white teeth. "My pleasure, Miss Palmer." 

My face crumbles into a scowl. "That isn't my last name." No one has ever accidentally called me or my immediate family by the name; we were never really close to Uncle Eldritch to begin with and that mere lack of contact stretched the relation between our families into near obscurity. 

"I know, I've just decided I like teasing you."

I wipe crumbs from my pants. "Unfortunately for you, I've never been very fond of being teased." 

She quirks a single blonde brow with interest, smile never wavering. "I've always liked a challenge."

Goodie for me , I think with no small amount of sarcasm as there's a hard rhythm of knocks at the front door. Dutch's demeanor changes instantly; all humor is wiped from her face as she straightens and hurries for the door. She slides open a small hatch for peeking through before closing it again almost immediately and unlocking the door. She pulls it open and two men enter.

The first is an elderly man supported by a cane, white-haired and sporting a perpetual scowl, not of judgment or suspicion, but of an ambivalence as if there's always more to what he sees and it isn't entirely a good thing. When that look immediately zeroes in on me, my instinct is to shrink away and attempt to appear as nonthreatening as possible. In this case, that just entails remaining where I am and trying my hardest not to become too tense. I've done nothing wrong, so why do I suddenly feel as if things are going to become much more complicated?

The second man that steps inside is tall, at least 6'5", and is built like someone who knows what hard labor is and has the bulk to show for it. He makes the older man seem small and withered. His eyes are a color so light I can tell from across the room they contrast heavily with the jet black hair that matches with his mustache and beard.

Dutch is speaking to them softly, too quiet for me to catch, which means she must be saying things she doesn't want me to hear. Whether that's a good or bad sign I don't know for sure, and I don't have the opportunity to consider it further when they all turn to look at me at once. The weight of their collective gaze is uncomfortable at best, and I'm driven to stare at my fingers twisting and coiling around each other. 

If they expect something of me that I can't provide, what are the chances they'll just let me go? A lot of things have changed since the outbreak, maybe that includes the decline of basic kindness from strangers; people have to fend for themselves more now, which probably means given the choice it'll be them over anyone else. If I don't have any usefulness in their cause—one I'm still unaware of—what will they do? 

Vaun said he'd find me, and if these people do me any harm when he said he'd protect me, what would happen then? He made a snap decision to have me leave him behind and escape with a total stranger, and I hope it wasn't the wrong one. He'd blame himself if anything happened to me. I still don't know a lot about him, but if I've learned anything at all, it's that he's devoted to what he does, and he's good at it. I don't know anything about these new people, and I can't assume they'll find me as worthwhile as the Ancients do. At least with Vaun I know there's a decent amount of understanding between us; I did save his life, and now he's saved mine. Here with Dutch, I'm just an outsider, someone they've apparently been searching for, but for what? Do they intend to use me for their own goals and then just throw me aside when I've outlived my usefulness? I know I'm assuming the worst of these people, but desperation brings out some strange qualities in people. Just what are they so desperate for that they need me? That Dutch was willing to scour a strigoi-infested apartment complex by herself just to find some lead on me and where I was? 

Let's hope I manage to find out and make it to the other side in one piece. 


	11. Chapter 11

Turns out the longer someone stares at you the less unnerving it gradually becomes. At least, in this case that's true. There's no malice or scorn in the way Dutch and her newly arrived friends watch me from the entrance. Reproachfulness, sure, but at least none of them appear to intend to do me physical harm. From first glance, I don't usually tend to impress anyone, and that seems to hold true in this case. 

"This is Palmer's niece?" Asks the old man, his voice gruff and austere. 

Dutch smacks her lips and nods, humming a, "Mhm." She clicks her tongue against her teeth with a cock of her head. "Well, she says she is." 

The tall man glances at her but keeps me just enough in his peripheral for me to know he's keeping an eye on me. "What is that supposed to mean? Is she or isn't she?" He says my name, and I notice he has an accent too, something foreign mixed in with what is undoubtedly a Brooklyn dialect. 

Dutch pulls my phone from her pocket with a flourish just as Nora approaches from somewhere further back on the second floor and makes her way down the stairs. A cord dangles from her fist, coming undone from its coil. "We're going to find out right now." Dutch takes the charger from Nora's outstretched palm and plugs it into the nearest outlet. With a bit of wiggling, she clicks the charger into my phone. A few seconds pass, and the telltale sound of the phone turning on blips through the room. 

"Here we go," Dutch says slyly, tapping at the screen. Nora moves closer to me and takes a seat on a nearby lawn chair, clasping her hands between her knees while she watches Dutch play with my phone. The two men hover over her, peeking over her shoulders. I don't know how she gets past the lock screen without my passcode, but she somehow manages it if the sudden onslaught of audible clicks and swishes are any indication.

Suddenly the trio all seem to hold one collective breath. Then, "Yup, it's her." This coming from the tall man. 

Dutch nods, a smile lifting her cheeks. She says my name in a sing-song voice and twists to look at me. "Your uncle has been texting you." 

My eyebrows furrow, and I stand from my seat. "I just remember getting one. Did more get through?" 

The tall man points at my phone while he speaks. "He seems pretty eager for you to come home." 

I brush my hands through the errant strands of hair around my face. "He wants me to come back to Stoneheart." 

"So that's where you've been," Dutch murmurs with a shake of her head. 

I flick my eyes between her and the phone. "Yeah. I've been there for a little while." 

"It's a good thing too," the man says. "Dutch here says your apartment building was overrun with strigoi." 

"That's where we ran into her, " I say. "I was just picking up a few things—"

"We?" 

"Me and my...uh, friend." 

"Her  _strigoi_ friend," Dutch clarifies, as if she still finds it hard to believe even though she was there herself. 

The tall man's face crumbles into confusion, but the older man looks at me as if I've done something interesting. 

I release a sigh, preparing to explain the oddity that is Vaun and our unlikely meeting. Before I can get a single word out however, the older man says, "A civil and autonomous strigoi?" At my silent nod he goes on, "Did they happen to wear military-grade clothing and use a gun?" 

Dutch and I glance at each other; she seems genuinely surprised as well. "Yes..." I answer carefully. Does this man know Vaun, or know of him? Maybe of the Sun Hunters in general? If so, this is all appears to be news to his friends as well.

"Professor, what are you talking about?" This from the other man, who seems more concerned now, if not a bit put out that he's the one now out of the loop. 

The older man, Professor, places both hands on his cane, maybe to brace himself for what he's going to say or to steady himself for how his friends will react. "I never told any of you this, but there was a brief time where I was approached by a group of strigoi; nothing like those that roam the streets like rabid animals, these were organized and trained like soldiers. They called themselves—"

"Sun Hunters," I finish in a near whisper. They all look at me. The professor nods, asking, "The name of your strigoi friend, what is it?"

I hesitate for a handful of seconds. Should I even risk telling them anything about him? About the Sun Hunters and the Ancients and my experiences with them so far? Would he want this? Would it be a breach of some form of trust to divulge my knowledge with them? These people are still human after all, and it’s us humans that are the ones who need help. I want to help. That's what he wants too. "Vaun." 

"Yes." The professor clearly recognizes the name, and he seems to think about something. "So he's recruited you, Palmer's niece."

"Well..." I tilt my head back and forth as I try to to find a way to verbalize my role. "Yes and no." 

"You're helping the strigoi?" The big guy asks, sounding suddenly appalled and outraged. 

"The Sun Hunters aren't the bad guys," I defend at the same time the professor interjects, "Not at all Mr. Fet. She's helping humankind." 

"From what I've gathered, based on what Vaun has told me, the Ancients, apart from the Master, only want to live in peace and actively try to avoid anything that could put strigoi-kind on the radar." 

"Whoa, whoa, you know all about the Master too?" Fet asks incredulously. 

"That makes things easier," the professor says. "Or more difficult, it depends." 

"On what?" Dutch asks. 

The professor looks at me inquisitively, as if the answers to what he seeks lies just behind my skull, etched into the bone. "On her." 

I don't know how to respond other than with a shrug. I still don't know what they want from me, what purpose my presence here even serves. 

"Since she is who she says she is, maybe we should answer some of her questions," Nora offers as she walks over to us.

"Fair enough," Dutch says. She places my phone down and turns to me, gesturing for me to speak up. 

"I..." I glance at Nora who only provides a small encouraging smile. I guess I have the floor now. "Okay, so, Dutch told me you all need me for something." I basically let the question ask itself. 

Fet is the one who responds. "We're hoping you could help us." 

"With...?"

"Scheduling a meeting of sorts," the professor explains, "with Eldritch Palmer." 

Of course . I can't conceal the sour expression on my face; it falls into a grimace when I realize I should have known better. "Okay, but why?" I feel the need to brace myself, prepare for them to ask something impossible of me.

"Your uncle is the common denominator in everything that has gone wrong in this city since flight 753 landed," Fet answers. "The only reason the Master managed to reach New York is because Eldritch Palmer funded it." 

I stare at him, chewing on his words like a tough piece of meat. "You're saying this is all his fault?" I'm not trying to defend him, I rationalize, I'm just confused as to how my uncle would even agree to help anything associated with the strigoi. "That would explain some things, I suppose..." 

"You suspected him?" Nora asks.

"No, no, all of this is still new to me." At the dubious looks they give me I elaborate, "It was probably intentional. For days I stayed in Stoneheart and had no idea what has been going on." 

Nora says, "That makes sense since the internet and cellular towers have gone dark, as well as most television networks."

Something uncertain crosses Dutch's slender face, something almost ashamed, and she lowers her big blue eyes before I can be sure. 

"Palmer has kept you blind to what is going on this whole time," the professor concludes, sounding entirely unsurprised. 

Fet shakes his head. "She still doesn't know what is going on, not really."

I'd like to refute that, but I'd be wrong. "Why do you guys want a meeting anyway? Why go through me to get one?" 

"You see, the meeting wouldn't exactly be consensual on his part," Dutch admits. 

A small frown pulls at my mouth. "Meaning?" 

"We...don't need you to schedule a meeting so much as lure him into one." 

"Lure?" I try to hide my discomfort with a smile and fail atrociously. "So you can jump him or something?" I do laugh this time. "Look, I know my uncle's health has improved recently but I still don't think he'd bend under the will of random strangers." 

Their faces seem to grow dark all at once, apparently not liking my accusations. "We won't bring any harm to Eldritch Palmer if we don't have to," the professor says in a tone that stings with the beginning heat of anger. "But we have to know just what he is up to, and how we can stop it, lest the entire city falls to ruin at the hands of the Master and becomes the epicenter for a new destitute world ruled by strigoi!"

His words are a lot to take in, and if I believed that the whole world was at stake then maybe I'd be more inclined to put a lot more at risk. As it is, being pressured by these people doesn't exactly inspire me to help them at all.

Nora places a hand between us all, a physical attempt to calm everyone. "Like she said, she's new to all of this." She looks pointedly at the professor. "Too much at once can be jarring and have an adverse effect. We're lucky she hasn't run off as it is." 

"Or went into shock," Dutch provides unhelpfully. 

I don't bother to mention it's probably because I've already had several meltdowns recently and just must have met my quota. 

"Maybe if we give her a little time to think things through and adjust—"

"We don't have time to coddle her!" 

"Not everyone has had literal decades to prepare for this, Professor." 

"We could force her." I cringe at that. 

"You're not helping, Fet," Dutch sighs, pinching at the bridge of her nose as if a headache is forming. 

I pipe up, "Can we make a compromise?"

They all look at me, some expectantly, others impatiently. 

I clear my throat and swallow. "If I can get the information you want, can we leave my uncle out of it? I mean, isn't it more likely he'll be on the hunt for you if you give him a reason? He has a lot of resources at his disposal and I don't think anyone wants to play cat-and-mouse with him with leading role as the mouse." 

"How do you plan to do that?" Dutch asks. She runs her fingers through her hair, carelessly ripping at any tangles. "You can't just waltz back into Stoneheart, that's what he wants, right?" She waves her hand in the direction of the charging phone, indicating the texts I've received. 

"Maybe she doesn't have to go back there at all," Fet proposes, eyes on me but not really looking at me, rather seeing something in his mind being devised. "Not if she plans a neutral meeting spot." 

The professor seems to consider it, nodding as cogs turn in his head, a plan in then making. After a moment, he turns his gaze to me as well. "If you lay out the conditions for the meeting to be in an area out in public, where other people are around to witness, maybe we can manipulate the situation enough to go our way." 

It's could be possible. But... "Uncle Eldritch doesn't go anywhere without some sort of security detail. Even if we're out in the open he definitely won't be alone."

"That's fine," Fet says reassuringly, "because neither will you." 

The professor adds, "Palmer is trying to keep up an appearance of being with the people, and he won't risk muddying that image by making a scene." 

"That explains all of the charity work he's been doing lately..." I mutter, thinking back on all of the recent company he's had. A lot of them weren't the sorts he typically associated with in a business setting. Usually he'd communicate through a third party, and certainly not in his own office. Fitzwilliam handled most of that sort of stuff elsewhere. Then again, he hasn't been around much lately. He wasn't at Stoneheart when I was there last, and as Uncle Eldritch's most trusted consultant, he's never far from him if he can help it. Still, that doesn't entirely explain the sudden wave of new visitors my uncle has been meeting with. Now that I think about it, the day I left Stoneheart he was discussing something with a couple members of a particular board concerned with an organization focused on health and medical needs directed at the general population. 

"What was that?" Nora asks me amiably. She's unquestionably the most patient out of the group. Everyone else looks about ready to either strangle me or snap in my face until I give in. 

I wave it off, reiterating my words. "I just remembered that Uncle Eldritch has had a lot of people coming and going from Stoneheart the past few days, which isn't really all that unusual, but some of them didn't really seem the normal type to meet with him face-to-face. With the main sources of communication out of whack, though, I guess it isn't too weird." 

"Do you know what they were meeting about?" Asks the professor. 

I shake my head. "It isn't as if I was allowed to sit in during his meetings or anything, so I only caught snippets here and there, most of it unhelpful." I wrap my arms around myself. "The only thing useful I caught the day I left was something about some sort of deal with a lesser known medical company that distributes supplies and donates to several small charities; they also mentioned something that might have had to do with construction somewhere, but I'm not entirely sure. I wasn't exactly paying much attention at the time." 

Fet and the professor exchange a look that I can't decipher. "We have a reliable source that gave us information concerning what sounds similar to what you overheard Palmer discussing." 

"So you believe me?" I wasn't even sure what I said made sense. This source makes me curious though. Who has enough access to gain valuable info concerning Stoneheart but is somehow also uncertain about their loyalty to my uncle to the point where they're willing to give up that info? 

The professor nods. "Yes, but when Fet and I go to confirm our source's intel, I'd like you to join us."

Fet rears back and looks at him with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. I imagine I look similar, because the professor raises his hand to begin explaining himself. Fet beats him to it and speaks first, though, saying, "Don't get me wrong, she can be a lot of help to us, I just don't think bringing her along would be what's safest for her." 

"Her value won't be of any use if she just sits around, Mr. Fet." 

"Look at her," Fet says, not exactly sounding critical, but rather more cynical. "Does she even know how to kill strigoi? Can she defend herself in a tough situation when no one else is able to protect her?" I don't really blame him for feeling that way, but the bite in his words still stings.

"She will learn," the professor insists. "Just as all of you have." 

"She's a little late in the game, but she can catch up given the opportunity," Dutch says with a gentle nudge of her elbow into my arm. 

Fet still doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he doesn't say anything more. Apparently deciding the discussion has ended, he turns and walks off into a different room with the swat of a curtain that hides what's beyond. 

"Don't worry about him, he'll warm up soon enough." Dutch offers me an encouraging smile, one I feel obliged to return before she follows after Fet. 

"We'll discuss this more soon," the professor tells me. He retreats to another room as well, leaving behind just me and Nora. 

She clasps her hands together, suddenly brightening at the prospect of talking about other things. "So, is there anything you'd like at the moment? A shower? A bed to get some rest?" 

Her tone implies hospitality, and I can't help but feel suddenly insecure. Do I smell? Is my exhaustion that noticeable? I haven't properly taken care of any basic necessities recently. Does it show that much? I don't want to reject her offers, but would my eagerness seem needy? 

I merely nod gratefully. "A shower would be great." 


	12. Chapter 12

Uncle Eldritch is in league with the Master. It's no wonder he was able to kill Vaun's squad so easily and brutally without remorse, and why he seemed so prepared. All along he's known about the strigoi, known what they're doing and are capable of. But for how long exactly? Since the very beginning of the outbreak? That only explains my invitation to stay at Stoneheart. Before the outbreak? Fet said that my uncle has funded the Master's endeavors, that he's the reason he's even here in New York. But what reason could he have for helping a strigoi infect one of the most populated cities in the world? What could the Master have that he's willing to go to such lengths for; to go so far as kill for it? 

He has to have known what the Master was going to do to the city, and for some reason didn't want me in the middle of it. But was that to just protect me or for some benefit that he believed I'd have by keeping me close by? Honestly, I wish I could deny any negative accusations these people have against him, but that fact is I just don't know him well enough to dispute their claims. Despite being my uncle, he's always kept me and my entire family at arms length. Sure, he's never really been a sentimental type of guy but he treats me with only marginally more familiarity than his own employees. That's why the only times I'd ever visited him during childhood was when my mom brought me along when she had some question or other for him; it tended be a business trip, never a simple family visit. Those visits became sparse once Mom got her own business up and running smoothly. Staying at Stoneheart during the outbreak was the first time I'd had contact with Uncle Eldritch in several years. As far as I can tell, it's never really bothered him to have infrequent contact with his relatives. We're all he has left, as his immediate family has passed, and it still doesn't seem to impact him. 

Maybe that's why I don't feel much regret that I left with Vaun. Worry about what Uncle Eldritch might do if I don't come back and concern for what it means that I won't, yes, but I haven't felt eager to return to Stoneheart, even as an escape from a situation out of my league. 

Now here I am, far more involved than I intended, more than I thought possible, surrounded by a group of strangers who are expecting something from me I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to deliver. 

I press a small towel into my hair, wringing out the moisture until I'm sure water won't seep into my clothes. A shower does wonders, and a warm one beneath a steady spray has managed to thaw out the chill that's clung to my fingertips and ears since leaving Stoneheart. It's nearly the middle of February, and walking around without a proper coat this far north is an easy way to contract pneumonia. My nose is already feeling a little runny, and there's a scratchiness clinging to the back of my throat. 

Maybe I'll ask Nora if there's any tea around here... 

"Feeling better?" Speaking of, the lovely brunette woman stands at the kitchen counter, pouring something steaming into two separate mugs. She's pulled her long dark waves into a ponytail, but her side-swept bangs fall loose and conceal her left eye until she brushes them back behind her ear. 

I fold the damp towel in half and place it on the back of one of two chairs resting at a small fold-out card table. "Yes, very much." 

She sends me a soft smile. "Good." She picks up the mugs by their handles and turns to me, offering one. "Coffee?" 

My returning smile melts into one of relief as I accept the cup. "I was just thinking of asking for something warm to drink. My throat has been starting to bother me." 

"I'd imagine so, especially if you've been wandering around without a jacket, hat, gloves, or scarf."

I take a generous sip of the coffee, slowly letting it glide down my throat in a hot stream, soothing the slight ache. It's definitely not the best coffee I've had, but right now it's absolutely perfect. "Mmm..." 

Nora chuckles softly, leaning against the counter with her hands cupped around her own mug. "I take it you approve?" 

"Yeah, it's great." I pause and take another drink. "Thank you." 

"As great as instant coffee can be," she jokes with another smile hidden behind the lip of her mug. 

"At times like these I'll take what I can get." 

"I'm sure you're used to the highest quality coffee with the beans ground fresh." 

"Stoneheart has coffee, the really exclusive high-priced type, but I’ve always thought it tasted weird. I stuck with hot cocoa and tea." I shrug. "Just because it's expensive doesn't mean it's good."

"Well said." She inhales the steam rising in wisps from her cup before taking a long generous sip. "Speaking of expensive, I'm glad to see the clothes fit well. I know they aren't much, but they should do until we can find you more." 

I shake my head while swallowing. "No, yeah, they fit just fine. I'm actually really surprised there were any clothes that would fit me around here." I tug at the oversized sweater hanging at my upper thighs and fiddle with the tie-string on the sweatpants that cinch at the ankles. Both are men's clothes, I think, and I'm not sure who they belong to, but so long as it's alright for me to wear them it shouldn't matter. Probably. 

As if sensing where my thoughts have headed, Nora says, "They're new clothes, in case you're wondering. We found them on a Goodwill truck and they still had the tags on them." She smiles a little sheepishly, but I don't blame her—or anyone—for taking what they needed during a crisis like this one.

"Regardless, I'm grateful. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll find some other clothes out there, since it doesn't seem like I'll be getting ahold of my own any time soon." If I was incredibly fortunate I'd be able to pick up what I left at Stoneheart, but going anywhere near there right now is a no-no. Same goes for my apartment complex, for an entirely different reason, but it's still dangerous all the same. 

"Maybe." Nora nods, running her thumbs along her cup. There's the scuffling sound of footsteps on the landing, and we both turn to look up. A young boy, probably 11 or 12, stands at the railing and stares down at us. He doesn't look very happy; his face is pinched into a decidedly nasty glower. It looks strange on such a young round face.

"Zach." Nora places her mug on the counter and approaches the stairs. "Is something the matter?" 

The boy shakes his head full of brown hair, looking from Nora to me with a gaze teeming with vitriol. "Who is  she ?" The question is innocent enough, but the way he says it is almost demanding, borderline biting in its bitterness. 

Nora glances at me over her shoulder before telling him my name. "She's a guest, and she's going to try to help us." I appreciate that last part, but the boy doesn't seem impressed. 

I offer a cordial close-lipped smile. Perhaps some friendliness will melt that chip of ice on his shoulder. 

"She's the one using my charger?" He asks in a clipped way as though he's expecting it back right this moment. 

"Yes," Nora says. "Until she can get to her own she needed to use yours for now." She's far more patient with the child than he seems to deserve. His foul mood definitely isn't appealing, and I don't need some snotty kid treating me rudely for no reason. I'll just avoid him if I can. 

Zach doesn't say anything more. He purses his lips distastefully until his face pinches into a scowl, and retreats back where he came with a roll of his eyes. Nora releases a small sigh. "I'm sorry about him. He's been through a lot." 

"He can have his charger back soon, my phone should be finished in a bit." I can’t be certain, but I don't quite think my borrowing his charger is what has him acting nasty, at least not entirely; sometimes people will use just about any excuse in a situation to release their agitation. Maybe this is part of his way of doing that. With everything going on, I don't entirely blame him for his attitude, just that he's directing it at someone who doesn't warrant it. Acting out is usually one of the biggest ways kids express their more aggressive and explosive emotions. For all I know the kid has experienced more during this catastrophe than I'll ever hope to not even imagine in my worst nightmares. So, I sort of sympathize with him, but that doesn't mean I have to like how his anger manifests. Because he definitely seems like one angry kid. 

Maybe the outbreak is bringing out the worst in everyone. Maybe I've really seen nothing yet. 

*******

Somehow the weather has gotten even colder. It has dropped to temperatures I'm not sure humans were meant to bear. The brisk air bites at all exposed skin and makes my eyes sting. I can't imagine how I was walking out here earlier without proper winter gear. Everyone pitched in to loan me what I'd need when I left Fet's place (yes, I was surprised to find out that small warehouse-looking building was actually his home). Now I'm bundled up in a heavy jacket, thick scarf, gloves, and knit beanie—which Dutch snuggled over my freshly braided hair before I walked out the door into the February cold. My ears thank her. I have the scarf tugged up around my mouth and nose, so all that is exposed is the skin around my eyes. My glasses ward off most of the air, but not enough to keep me from having to take elongated blinks to keep my eyes from watering. 

"You doing okay, kid?" Fet is driving and he glances at me through the rear view mirror. We're riding in a bread truck they liberated from a gas station (“another story for another day,” he says), and somehow I'm surprised it has a rear view mirror but no proper heating system. I feel heat coming from somewhere, but nowhere near me sitting in the back among piles of bread and not nearly strong enough to make me feel comfortable. 

"Yeah, I'm good." I offer a strained smile beneath the scarf. 

"You sound cold." 

"I'm fine."

"I can hear your teeth chattering from up here." He raises his eyebrows while glancing at me again with a small smile of his own. 

I cross my arms and huddle in on the warmth my own body emits beneath the coat. "I'm still building up my own heat reserves, I'll be okay." 

"Not used to the cold?" 

"I've been a northern girl my whole life, but I've always been sensitive to the cold." Talking seems to help. I can shift a little in my seat without feeling like any new place my body moves will send new streams of chilly air along my limbs. I can still see my breath fog in front of my face. 

"Well we're almost to our destination, so you'll be able to move around and warm up." 

"Where are we going anyway? You said a source gave you info about something my uncle is up to, but I don't know much else." I peer out the window, taking in the shape and size of the buildings we pass. More warehouses and factories. We're in another industrial district. 

"There is a project he's working on," the professor speaks up. "You mentioned overhearing some of his meetings, that there's some sort of construction work going on and an agreement with a medical company." 

I nod. "Yes." 

"That information seems to match up with the intel we received from our source." 

"And your source gave you, what? A location? A name?" Just what am I walking into? I agreed to come because I thought it would help me somehow, maybe find useful information that could help the Ancients to end this. So far these people seem far more concerned with my uncle than the Master. Even if he has helped the Master, who's to say he wasn't blackmailed? Or coerced or offered something so valuable in return that he couldn't refuse. Whatever hand Uncle Eldritch has had in this I don't condone it, but maybe he's a victim here too. 

"Yes." That's all the professor says as Fet brings the truck to a stop. I lean over towards the front and look out the window. A massive brick building sits about a quarter of a mile away. There are other buildings around but none are in such good condition. Besides, it just looks like the type of place my uncle might kickstart a project. He's done several before, but this is the first I'm actually paying attention to. The first that seems to matter beyond benefiting the wealthy and elite under the guise of hospitality and civility. This time it has something to do with the chaos running amok in the city, maybe even is going to contribute to it. 

My first step out of the truck greets me with a burst of cold wind to the face. Scowling beneath the scarf, I tug it up further until it rests on the bridge of my nose right beneath my eyes. 

Fet pulls some sort of nail gun attached to a strap over his shoulders and steps around the truck while the professor gets out. "You have a weapon?"

I feel around the coat, gloved-fingers fumbling as they push into the deep padded pocket until I find the handle of the knife Vaun loaned me. I pull it out as the overcast sky splits open briefly. Sunlight glints off of the blade in a sliding flash. 

"Silver. Good." The professor nods approvingly. He can tell just by looking?

"In a pinch that'll work," Fet says, holding his hand out for the knife, eyebrows raised as if asking for permission. I hand it over and he grips it, testing its weight and balance. "But we'll have to get you something with a longer reach." He hands the knife back to me, handle first. "It's a nice piece, but we'd prefer you not have to get so close to the munchers to use it." 

Fair enough. I'd personally prefer the same thing. 

"Let's get moving," the professor says while I secure my grasp on the knife with the gloves so it doesn't slip from my fingers. "We’re losing daylight, and the less time we're out in the open here, the better." 

Fet takes the lead with me right behind him. The professor brings up the rear. Fet uses pliers to clip a hole in the fence surrounding the area. 

"I have a very strong instinct about this," says the professor, gravely. "Something very bad is happening here."

"After you," Fet says, stepping aside while holding open the fence. Once we've all squeezed through to the other side, we approach what looks to be some sort of delivery entrance. But the yellow bus that rests parked there doesn't look like it belongs here at all. "What's a school bus for blind kids doing at a Stoneheart factory?" My question exactly. 

"I trust you've come prepared?" The professor asks. 

Fet adjusts the bag at his back, indicating that whatever is inside must be useful for this particular outing. "I'm always prepared."

We make our way to the door ahead at the top of a set of steps. Fet pauses before it, weapon at the ready, held before him in one hand while he twists the handle. Somehow I expect it to be locked, but he manages to push the door open slowly, silently, revealing a short hallway within. It's empty, so he's the first to walk in. The hall is attached to a couple other doors, and we look inside them all only to find nothing useful. It isn't until we reach the door at the end of the hallway that we stumble upon something interesting.

"What the..." Fet mutters as we all take in the spectacle in the center of the room. 

A bizarre cavity made of cement is built on a platform a couple feet off the ground. Short stairs lead up to it. It's the only thing in the chamber-like room. Fet and the professor scan the space, taking in everything. A few small bodies lie on the floor, immobile. Kids? A coil of horror pools in my stomach. Even without seeing their faces I know they're strigoi. Someone else killed them. 

"These critters..." Fet begins. 

"Dead," the professor finishes. "Necks snapped. Culled from the herd." 

"Another strigoi did this?" I ask quietly, appalled and confused. A cluster of walking sticks rest propped against the cement structure. Blind kids? That explains the bus. But not why they were brought here to begin with. 

Fet moves with his gun raised. "What is this, like a mass grave?" 

"The opposite," replies the professor. "A nursery." 

I take a single step toward the well. It's roughly the shape of an average above-ground family pool, but there's something inside that definitely isn't water. Dark brown, dense, smelling of moist earth and something almost a little sour like mildew. 

My head tilts to the side. "Is that...?" 

"Dirt," the professor finishes. He doesn't sound happy at the discovery. "Stay away from it." He sounds like he knows why it's here, what it's purpose is. 

I'm about to ask just what that purpose is when a peculiar noise catches my attention. Just on the edge of my senses, like when you notice something faraway but can't quite make it out enough to determine what it might be. Maybe it's my own mind, creating noises to occupy the empty quietness of this place, the eeriness. Without needing to be told, we've all grown silent to listen. 

"Professor!" Fet exclaims. 

"I hear it." Perhaps I'm not imagining the sounds. I move away from the pool of dirt and breathe slowly. 

There it is again, seeming to come from a corner where the walls meet the ceiling. When I raise my head to look, there's nothing there, as if I'm catching the echo of a noise long-gone. If I had to make a guess now, I'd say it sounded like someone clicking their tongue against their teeth. Only this is almost sharper, more continuous. 

"They're coordinated," Fet says, eyes moving rapidly to catch the source of the noises. 

"The Master," the professor explains. 

“(Y/N),” Fet says lowly at the same moment I feel his hand tug at my hood to pull me back between him and the professor. A single glance at his face sends the blood rushing from mine like liquid through a cracked glass. His eyes are wide and alert, searching for a threat he can't yet see. There's a twitch in his jaw, a tightness in the muscle there. He looks on edge. 

"Yeah, I'm just gonna keep firing and hope I get lucky." He glances at me quickly, something resembling regret crossing his face. "Just in case, I'm gonna save the last three for us." He bucks up and growls. "Now come on, you little monkeys! Come on! Bring it! Let's do this!" 

My fingers are beginning to cramp around the handle of my knife, my grip tight enough to feel the blood pulsing through them at a quickening pace. "What's happening...?" I whisper, unable to help the uneasy breathlessness in my voice. 

They both ignore me, and that only serves to frustrate me. What good am I here if they won't help me understand what is going on? I turn to the professor with concerns prepared on my tongue. If there's danger here, why are we even still inside? 

I don't get the chance to say anything.

They're like ghosts. Three figures appear almost as if out of nowhere and move in blurs of movement down the walls like some sort of nightmare, making that strange clicking noise, now clearer and much more terrifying. A gasp rips from my throat before I can help it and I'm stumbling back as the two men move at once. 

Fet shoots at the closest one. Each shot misses with a whistle and thunk as bullets sink into the walls because these strigoi keep moving with a speed I didn't know was possible. One of them jump onto the railing of the staircase leading to the well of dirt, squatting as it cocks its head to the side like a bird, almost defiant. The other two keep the attention of Fet and the professor, drawing their fire and swings of their blades as the strigoi lunge from wall to floor to wall to ceiling, staying just out of their reach. It almost seems as if they're playing with them, taunting them. Distracting them. 

Whatever type of strigoi these are, they appear to be smart. At least enough to possess some form of self-preservation. From my place cowering behind Fet and the professor I can see enough past the rising panic stuffing my head with static that they do seem organized and coordinated. Which raises a load of new questions. 

My eyes try to take it all in at once, only to end up back on the only strigoi not in constant dizzying movement. Its bulbous head has few greasy strands of hair left attached to its scalp. A thick smudged band of something that looks like soot but very likely is something nastier covers its eyes. Differing from normal strigoi I've seen, its eyes appear to be a foggy whitish-blue, like dead fish eyes. It is ugly, that's for sure, but what's more, is that it's quite small. A child, like the ones dead on the floor. They wear some sort of school uniform that appears torn beyond repair and covered in things filthier than the dirt they seem to be guarding.

The professor takes a swing at the strigoi perched on the railing and it leaps straight up, impossibly high, and when it reaches the ceiling it uses its momentum and launches itself back down in a burst of speed. But not back to the professor or to Fet.

I want to scream, to move, but I don't have the chance to. Don't have the time. I'm too slow. Too paralyzed. I can only watch with wide watery eyes as the creature arcs at me, mouth dropping open to make way for the revolting appendage that lolls out and splits open at the end to make way for two pincers tipped with razor-like teeth. 

The knife is clutched in my hands, held near my chest, and I only receive the command from my fear-addled brain to direct it at the strigoi when it's too late. 

Almost too late. 

Explosions erupt, loud enough to make my ears screech. No. That's not me. 

Shrieks echo through the room as if they bounce on the walls, floor, and ceiling. There's the sound of metal whistling through the air. I've closed my eyes, I realize a little belatedly. They're squeezed shut, tight enough to see pinpricks on the backs of my eyelids. 

Did I get shot?

I feel no pain. Distantly I can feel my chest heaving with shallow gasps of air. No, not me. The gunshots have stopped. I don't recall either Fet or the professor bringing any guns that fire that rapidly. 

Carefully, hesitantly, I peel my eyes open. My gaze is aimed at the floor. The strigoi headed for me lies there, unmoving. White fluid drains from the stump where its head used to be. Worms wriggle in its blood, searching for a new host. Something thick and sour roils in my belly when I catch the rancid smell. I gag, stumbling away from the corpse, and bump right into someone. I make to step around them when a hand finds my upper arm, gripping hard enough to keep me from moving but not enough to hurt. 

I'm about to shake the hand off; Fet and the professor must be severely unimpressed with me. Someone says my name in warning, almost fearful, sounding farther away than it should. My head snaps up and my whole body goes still, struck with confusion. 

A tall strigoi has my arm in his hand, keeping me from moving away. And I want to, but I don't pull back. I don't move at all. Only my eyes flicker in rapid movements over his face—all sharp angles and bald paleness that is becoming familiar with strigoi, wide lips stretching further at the corners near the cheeks, and severe eyes such a startlingly light shade of blue they're almost white. I want to say those eyes look angry, but maybe it's merely the naturally low set of his bare brow-bone. Regardless, he meets my eyes, almost pensive in his scrutiny, until I begin to feel the familiar discomfort of being beneath someone's gaze.

Naturally, my eyes lower and end up falling to the wicked sword in his other hand. Long and fitted with some sort of pale material at the handle, oddly shaped and more lengthy than I'd figure one would be. While the blade is held away from me, I can't help the shudder that makes its way down my spine, along my limbs. 

"Let the girl go, now," the professor warns. Neither he nor Fet have made any move as far as I can tell. They both stand near the well of dirt, weapons raised at the strigoi. He doesn't appear fazed in the slightest. 

"You alright, kid?" Asks Fet, watching the strigoi closely, unwilling to let him make a single move that he won't catch. 

"Uh, I'm not hurt if that's what you're asking," I reply, a notable tremor in my words.  _I'd be much better if this guy removed his hand__,_ is what I don't say. Though I'm positive it shows clearly enough on my face. 

"Let her go," Fet orders. As if he has the upper hand here. 

"I don't mean any of you harm." I'm unpleasantly startled by the smoothness of the strigoi's voice. Somehow I expected him to at least sound similar to Vaun, but I hardly detect that duel-toned sound. Instead, there's an accent, close to what Dutch's sounds like, but not quite as thick. 

"Then let the girl go," the professor says. 

The strigoi looks at me, and for an unbearably long moment just stares, as if cataloging my every feature, every flaw, and I hate myself for the way my face grows warm under his scrutiny, nearly as hot as his hand on my arm—somehow, even through layers of clothes I feel that heat that most strigoi seem to give off. Or, the ones I’ve encountered at least. 

When he finally releases his hold, an entire couple of heartbeats pass before I move away back towards Fet and the professor. The other child-like strigoi lie crumpled on the ground, I notice, littered with bullets or fatal cuts. None of us have guns with enough ammo to do this sort of damage. Which means this stranger did. 

"Who are you?" I don't realize I've whispered the question until the strigoi answers. 

Those eyes are on me again, and I swallow back a thick shudder. "My name is Quinlan." 

"Mr. Quinlan, why are you here?" The professor asks. Right to the point. "Are you in league with the Master?" 

An expression of distaste forms on Quinlan's face, nearly a grimace. "I am in no way affiliated with that abomination." His words have heat, though he never raises his voice, I can almost feel the sting of tenacity. "I followed you here, professor, after hearing of your success in wounding the Master from the Ancients. You and I have something very much in common." 

"What's that?"

"We are both hunting the Master." 


	13. Chapter 13

"You know the Ancients?" The professor asks in response to Quinlan's proclamation. 

"Hold on," Fet says. "What are the Ancients? What the hell is this guy?" He gestures at Quinlan with his gun. 

Quinlan bends down to pick up a worm from the pile of goo leaking from the dead strigoi at my feet, looking it over like a random pebble he found that appeared interesting. "If you discharge that weapon in this direction I will come over there and tear you in half." He drops the worm and sends Fet a blank look that somehow also translates as a glare. His gaze moves to the professor, and he takes him in. "I see you've been hunting the Master for some time." 

"Most of my life," the professor answers, and there's a weariness in his words that's never seemed to show in his actions—at least, not as I've seen so far. "You?" 

Quinlan looks away, not in shame or contemplation, but like how someone falls into recollection; in remembrance. "All of mine." When his gaze returns to the present, they fall to the professor's side. More accurately, the sword in his grasp. 

The professor catches his appraisal. "You know this cane. The Sardu legend." 

"That cane is proof it is not a legend. There are no myths, Professor. Only exaggerations."

"Or hidden truths," the professor replies with a little bite in his words, "such as the Ancients. What did they tell you?" 

"They'd told me about a mortal who'd succeeded in wounding the Master." My eyebrows shoot up at that. The professor managed to harm the big bad guy? "The Dark Lord has taken on various forms over the centuries, but always by choice. No one has ever forced him to transform. Until now." More news to me; the head monster can change bodies. Good to know. 

"He has taken on a new form?" 

"Indeed." 

With all of this new info and Quinlan's appearance, I feel as if I'm at least a little more prepared for what might come next. "I suppose I'll be useful to the Sun Hunters after all..." 

Everyone looks at me with varying levels of interest and I sigh, looking at the knife in my hands. "I don't know where they are, but they wanted my help to kill the Master. Before I could actually do anything helpful I was separated from my..." I pause. What is he to me? A colleague? Mentor? My friend? None of those sound quite right. "...Vaun." 

Quinlan looks at me strangely, startled if I had to guess from the tilt of his head and sudden shift of his stance. "You know Vaun." He doesn't phrase it as a question, but I nod anyway. "Then you're the other one the Ancients mentioned..." 

My head pops back up to look at him. They mentioned me? Why? "You spoke with them about me?" 

"In a manner, yes." He nods, reaching to slide his sword into a scabbard strapped to his back. Apparently he doesn't see us a threat anymore. Or, at least not enough of one to need a sword. From the looks of it, two semi-automatic guns are strapped to his person. If we posed any real harm to him, those would deter us just fine. 

"And Vaun," I continue, keeping my tone neutral, "is he...okay?" I'd rather not say "alive". Somehow that sounds crude. Saying it aloud would make the alternative seem more plausible. I don't want it to be at all plausible that he died in my apartment building, crushed by a rabid wave of his own kind. 

Quinlan's eyes narrow a tiny bit, as if considering something. "He's fine. Searching for you, I believe." His head tilts, intrigued. "You are his ward." Again, it isn't phrased as a question, but as a statement of fact. He seems to be a very confident guy, certain of his words. 

His words, however, do fill me with a heady form of relief, easing something in my chest that has been wound tight since being separated from Vaun. The question now is, can I go back to him? Now that I've been brought into this new group of people, I'm expected to help them too. Despite not owing them anything, I'd feel a little guilty if I simply abandoned them. Though, would it really be abandoning if I eventually came back? Who's to say I can't help them all? I'm not obligated to serve any of these people, not even the Ancients, not even Vaun. It's all just somehow expected of me. In the span of a couple days I've been saddled with responsibilities I never asked for. If it were entirely up to me, I'd get distance from this whole mess. After all, if I'd merely given in to my mom and listened to her concerns and just went back home at the very start I'd be uninvolved in any of this. As it is, I'm stuck here now, right in the middle, and Quinlan is speaking with Fet and the professor. I've tuned them all out momentarily, and their voices take shape, forming words. 

"The Master is near," Quinlan is saying. "I can feel him." 

I'd ask for more elaboration on that, but somehow I feel it would be inappropriate. A question for another time, perhaps. 

"He created you," the professor states, sounding certain the way he so often seems to. 

"Is that even possible?" Fet asks, appearing only a little less bewildered than me, though I suspect it's for an entirely different reason. 

Quinlan nods once, appearing less than enthused at the fact. 

The only other strigoi I've come across who possess their own free will are the Sun Hunters, and even then I don't believe they'd be up to hunting down and killing their creators. Why is Quinlan different? 

"You know what killing the Master would do to you?" 

His eyes lower pensively. When he looks at us again, there's a coldness in his gaze, not directed at us exactly, but in response to the topic. It's a touchy subject, I suspect. "I came to terms with my fate long ago," he responds. He looks at me, and a little bit of that iciness seems to melt. "This is no place for you." I don't know what to say to that, or whether I should be insulted by his assumption, and before I can try to think of something to retort with he is turning to the professor. "His destruction is my responsibility." He reaches back and lightly places his fingers against the handle of his sword. "It has been since the moment I was born." 

Since he was born? Something Vaun told me jumps to the forefront of my brain like a hiccup, and I try not to balk. "You-you're born? I mean, you were born like this, a strigoi?" 

I can feel both Fet and the professor looking at me, but I only watch as Quinlan nods. He appears a little caught off-guard, but not entirely shocked at my knowledge of the born. I only know what Vaun has told me, which honestly still isn't much. But he’s confirming my words. 

"I knew when the Master was wounded, when the sun touched his skin." He looks pointedly at the professor. "And yet your first victory is a minor one compared to this," Quinlan says. 

"What's that?"

"You've led me to his nesting place." With those parting words, Quinlan makes his way for the stairs I figure he came down when he entered to begin with, taking them two at a time before vanishing through a door at the top. 

"His—his  what ?" The professor stutters, suddenly gripped by determination. "Here?" 

"What the hell just happened?" Fet asks, eyeing the stairwell Quinlan just vacated. 

"He's here."

"I got that part. But what the hell was that?" I assume he's referring to Quinlan, but the professor leaves no more time for idle chat. 

"We can't allow the Master to escape. We must bring this structure down on him." 

"We can do that. Go on ahead," Fet says. "I have an idea." He pats the bag at his back. "It'll be messy though."

"And what about Quinlan?" I manage to ask. If he's trying to kill the Master too and put a stop to this whole catastrophe, then doesn't that make him an ally? 

"Nothing matters more than destroying the Master." Well, I guess that answers that for now. "Follow me," the professor calls to me, beckoning while he moves for the stairs Quinlan just disappeared up. 

I follow after the professor while Fet goes back through the door we came in. I'm not entirely sure of the plan, but I don't think anyone was expecting the Master to be here. Which begs the question: what will happen when we face him? 


	14. Chapter 14

This was only meant to be a reconnaissance mission, a pretty quick and simple task—take a look around, see what we find, then leave; in and out. Clearly that isn't what is happening today. I was prepared for questions, both given and received. What I'm not ready for is a showdown with the head strigoi responsible for the deadly infection spreading all over New York City. If it wasn't obvious, I'm not experienced in combat. Strigoi move in ways I've never seen before. I can't possibly be expected to help take on an ancient vampire. 

"Professor," I begin while trailing behind him. "What am I doing here?" 

We walk around a corner, and he pauses only for a moment to allow me to approach his side. "You're here to help." 

"That's not what I—" 

"You'd hoped to find me weakened and hurt," a voice says ahead, low and so insidious it makes my teeth hurt. "As ever, you are too late." 

The professor and I step into a corridor in the midst of reconstruction. Rubble and tarps lie around. Chalky remains of work recently being done coats the floor and hovers in the air in dusty particles. 

Quinlan stands just ahead, his back to us. He addresses a bald figure in a long black coat on the other side of the hall, as well as another finely dressed man. Wait. I recognize that man... 

"Eichorst," I mutter, distaste sour on the back of my tongue. I've spoken to him enough to know something has always seemed off about him. Now I know why. 

"What's this?" Quinlan says. "Your new lapdog?" His head tilts mockingly. "I’m curious about something. Your power depends on darkness, invisibility, obscurity. Yet this siege exposes you. Leaves you vulnerable." 

"What is it you're after?" The Master asks, seemingly unaffected by Quinlan's jabs. 

"You." 

The professor steps up beside Quinlan, and I do the same, however uneasy I am. I'm wholly unprepared for a battle. I don't even have a proper weapon, at least not one that could help keep me from getting killed. Or worse, turned. 

"Now it's a proper duel, complete with seconds, and...thirds?" The Master's eyes fall on me, and I swear I've never shuddered harder in my entire life. "Little girl, what are you doing here? This is no place for you." His tone is patronizing, but it doesn't overpower the fear making my heart stutter. "Your uncle misses you dearly. Once I've taken care of these pests, I'll return you to him myself." 

"I think the fuck not." I'm shocked I manage to speak without stumbling over my words. But once they're out I feel a little better, a little more in control. Especially when I catch the marginal widening of his black eyes. 

Almost at the same time, both Quinlan and the professor shift towards me without taking their attention off of the Master, as if neither want him even looking at me, much less addressing me directly. 

"What a team you two make," the Master continues, opting to ignore my indiscretion. "United and crippled by lifelong hatred." 

"This human embarrassed you," Quinlan states, indicating the professor next to him. "Now I'm about to destroy you." 

The Master almost looks smug, as if he'll laugh in his face any moment. "On the contrary. I'll make you scream out in agony. As I did your mother." 

Something snaps in Quinlan, and he's suddenly rushing the Master, closing the distance between them before either the professor or I can make any moves.

Too little too late. 

A rumble comes from above like thunder over our heads, and the ceiling bursts, crashing down between us and the Master. I stumble away from the damage while the professor stays in place, watching as cement crumbles to the ground. A stray piece knocks into the professor’s shoulder, and he stumbles back a step. I’m far enough not to have been struck by any debris, but the dust that clouds the air tickles at my throat. 

Quinlan stands just beyond the rubble, frantically looking for a way through. "No!I had him! He was here!" The path is cut off, save for a few tiny spaces. He picks up a massive chunk of cement and throws it agitatedly before spinning on his heel and stalking up to the professor. "You cost me a chance to destroy him once and for all," he seethes. "Now he will shore up his defenses." He looks to me, out of my element, and the tension in his jaw eases slightly. "This is my fight. I will take it from here." He brushes past us and is gone in an instant. 

The professor doesn't have anything to say, which seems unusual. 

Fet appears from a doorway somewhere to the left. "Hey, you two alright?" He glances at the remains of the ceiling. Must have been his handiwork. "Did we get him?" 

"They're gone," the professor says plainly. 

"Who, the Master, or what, the other guy? Who?" Another glance at the debris and he shakes his head. "We gotta get outta here." He ushers me and the professor to the nearest exit. "C'mon."

I can't get out of this place quick enough. I hope to never have to step back inside ever again. 


	15. Chapter 15

I never thought I'd be so grateful to sleep in a stranger's bed before. Well, I wouldn't necessarily say they're strangers anymore, not entirely, but I usually like to know someone for longer than a single day before I get in their bed. 

Exhaustion has me gripped in its unerring hold so tightly I skipped dinner and decided to head to sleep instead. Seeing as all of the beds are spoken for, Fet offered me the use of his. I figured he would like to sleep in his own bed, but moments after making the offer he left in a huff. Ever since Dutch brought her girlfriend, Nikki, here earlier, Fet has been not entirely inconspicuous with his dislike of her presence in his home. I think maybe something is going on between him and Dutch, which explains his moodiness since Nikki being here must have put a sort of wedge between them. 

Really, it's none of my business, and I try not to make a habit of involving myself in peoples' love lives. Especially not when it gets messy. 

Despite all that has happened, and with no way of knowing what may come next, I'm able to fall asleep quickly, soundly, and most blessedly, dreamlessly. 

*******

"Councilwoman Faraldo's taking care of business, huh? A couple more days she'll have all of Red Hook sealed off." Fet is at the wheel of the bread truck again, driving down the streets and headed deeper into the city. 

This morning I was invited to ride along with Fet and the professor again, this time to a meeting to see about a book. Apparently it's a very valuable book because a Cardinal of all people is the liaison for its present owner. Why I was requested to be there is beyond me, but if they think it might help then I have little problem with going along with it. 

"Admirable," the professor responds, "but at best only a holding option." That sounds a little bleak, but I don't bother saying so. At least the councilwoman is doing something useful, regardless of whether or not it's temporary. "We should have set off earlier." 

"He's a busy man," Fet says. 

"If we're late, he's liable to cancel the appointment." 

"Yeah, I forgot that blowing those transit tunnels would play hell with the traffic." 

The professor leans over to glance at me bouncing in my unsecured seat. "I thought Dutch was coming too." 

"No." Fet doesn't sound like he wants to talk about her very much. "Her friend, Nikki, she's uncomfortable staying with us, so, uh, Dutch is helping her find a place in one of the buildings we cleared."

The professor looks seconds away from rolling his eyes. "Mr. Fet, get your head out of her skirt and back in the game." I can't help the light huff of laughter that escapes at that. "You need to be focused up here." 

Fet appears a little chagrined, but he brushes it off well. "No, don't you worry." He meets my eyes briefly in the rear view mirror. "I'm all here." 

*******

We park on the side of the road and walk the rest of the way to our destination. I wasn't exactly expecting it to appear to be a place of worship, but considering the last place we went, it’s a nice change. 

Fet stops before the church—or rather, what looks like a church—admiring the view. "Take a look at that, huh? Neo-Gothic perfection.

The building is beautiful, built of sand-colored stone. Its location among so many buildings of metal and glass seems out of place, but the architecture is a breath of fresh air. 

Inside, we're led by a stern man who walks in clipped strides into a room that nearly glitters with opulence. Aren't followers of religion supposed to live humbly? The amount of gold in this room alone could purchase food for a quarter of the city. 

"Cardinal's doing alright for himself, huh?" Fet jokes. 

"You're late," says a man sitting at a table in the middle of the room, set with full dishes. We must have arrived during his lunch. He wears deep red robes and a matching cap, and he seems perfectly at home amongst all of this wealth. 

"My apologies, your Eminence." 

The Cardinal waves his hand dismissively. "Not necessary, Nicholas. They won't be staying long." He turns his attention to us and rests his elbows on the edge of the table, weaving his fingers together. "I'm listening."

"My client wishes to purchase the Occido Lumen," says the professor. 

"The Lumen is an exceedingly valuable artifact." The way the Cardinal says it is almost pretentious and makes me think he doesn't believe we have the means to join the bidding, much less actually purchase it. "And forgive me for saying so, but none of you appear to have the resources to enter the game." 

"We don't." The professor indicates himself and Fet. "But she does." He places a hand on my shoulder momentarily. When I stiffen he lets go, but him touching me isn't what bothers me. 

The Cardinal tilts his head in interest, eyes taking me in. "And who is this?"

“(Y/N) Palmer.” The name that leaves the professor's mouth isn't mine, at least not entirely. Palmer was never my last name. All the same, the Cardinal's eyes widen, suddenly intrigued. 

"She is Eldritch's niece?" Having them speak as if I'm not here is getting irritating, and I think Fet can read it on my face because he nudges me lightly, encouragingly.

"I am," I speak up, feigning some semblance of confidence.

"What are you doing with these people bidding for dusty old artifacts?" The Cardinal asks, speaking as if I'm a child.

"Not important. All you need to know is I can meet your price." 

"Is that so? Well, the price is now $750,000 in gold."

"Agreed," the professor says.

"I can have it in 24 hours," I add.

The Cardinal nods in agreement. "I'll be in touch." 

The professor frowns. "You have another bidder. Is it Eldritch Palmer? I must warn you, you're dealing with a very dangerous man. He probably has people watching your every move." He uses his cane to gesture around the room. "Your position will not protect you." 

"Duly noted." The Cardinal doesn't seem bothered at all. "Tell me though, does Mr. Palmer know that you are using his niece to bid against him?”

A flush of irritation grips me. “No one is using me. I’m here for my own reasons.” It’s only partly true, but it seems to intrigue the Cardinal all the same. 

“Interesting. Do you even know what it is you are bidding for, dear? Why your uncle wants it too?” At your lack of an answer, his gaze returns to the professor. “If you gentlemen and young lady will excuse me, the mayor has requested I deliver an address at his fund-raiser tonight, and I've yet to write one word of my speech." 

"When will we hear from you?" The professor asks. 

"Check back tomorrow afternoon." He leans back in his seat and gestures to his butler. "Nicholas, escort them out." We all turn to leave when I catch the Cardinal speak again. "Your uncle will be very interested in knowing what you are up to, young lady." I don't know whether to read that as a threat or a warning, but I find it doesn't matter. If he tells my uncle who I'm with and what I'm doing, who knows what he might do. 

"So how are we gonna get our hands on 750 grand in gold?" Fet asks while we walk back to the truck. The temperature is dropping already as the sun begins to make its descent. 

The professor answers, "That is not our concern right now. If this man has the Lumen, Palmer will take it from him."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. How are we gonna stop him?" 

I look from one to the other, nodding at Fet's point. "If my uncle wants this book as badly as you do, he'll go to great lengths to get it just to ensure you don't." 

"That's why we're going to take it first." 

"Rob a Cardinal?" Fet chuckles at the prospect, either in disbelief or excitement I'm not sure. Maybe both. 

"I prefer to think of it as recovering a stolen artifact, but yes, we're going to rob the son of a bitch."

*******

"So do we have a plan for this heist?" Fet is saying as he opens the back of the truck for me to climb in. 

I brace my legs and arms to pull myself inside when a whisper catches my ear, like hearing something from far away and knowing it's meant for you. 

"What?" 

Fet pauses and looks at me. "Huh? Something the matter?" 

"Did you say my name?" 

His thick eyebrows draw together. "No." He lengthens the word as if to ask his own question.

"But I did." The voice comes from the alley we're parked next to, and only when the hooded figure appears do I relax slightly. 

"Mr. Quinlan," the professor greets blandly. "What is it you want? I thought you wanted nothing to do with us any longer."

"Not you," he says. His arctic blue eyes watch as I lower myself and step away from the truck. "Her." 

My mouth drops slightly as I look at each of them in turn. Finally, I manage to get out, "Why?" 

Quinlan takes a step in my direction, and Fet straightens just enough to notice the display of inflated machismo. I try not to sigh. 

Quinlan isn't fazed in the slightest, and he keeps his gaze fixed on me as if I'm the only person standing here. "I'd like your help with something." 

"What's that?" 

"Convincing someone to join the fight. Someone who was once a part of it, but abandoned the mission." 

"Am I just a mascot to everyone?" I mumble, heat rising in my face. "Just because I'm related to Eldritch Palmer doesn't make me some invincible untouchable being. I can't be waved around like a symbol on a flag and expect people to fall to their knees. In reality, I'm no one. It's just a name—"

"I don't need the Palmer name," Quinlan interrupts. "I just need you." 

For some reason my cheeks flare hotter at that, and I bow my head towards the ground. "Will it take long?" That isn't necessarily what I'm worried about since I'm sure Fet and the professor will get on just fine without me, but possibly being alone with Quinlan makes something wiggle and tighten in my gut. 

"Not far too long, no."

I press my hands into my pockets and lift my head back up, deeply inhaling the chilly air and then letting it out slowly. "Okay." 

Fet balks. "You can't be serious, (Y/N)," he says with just enough disappointment to sting, and I feel a tiny stab of guilt at just leaving them. 

"She'll be fine," the professor mutters, not sounding entirely pleased himself. 

"I'll be back soon," I say. I take a step toward Quinlan, and he turns around and leads me back the way he came. 

I just hope when I'm through, I'll get back out in one piece.


	16. Chapter 16

It was utterly reckless and impulsive to have agreed to follow Quinlan. 

If I were a sensible and logical person, I would have demanded a precise layout of his plans and intentions the moment he requested my help. Instead I just took him at his word, as if I know enough about him to believe anything he says is genuine. Just because he has similar objectives doesn't exactly mean he has our best interests in mind. Who knows what lengths he might go to to achieve his goals. I still don't even really know why he needs me in particular. 

As it is, I've followed him to a back alley of some restaurant. Darkness has fallen over the city, and I get a very keen impression that Quinlan is waiting for something. The dumpsters are overflowing, filling the chilly night air with the sour smell of days old garbage. Sanitation services appear to be yet another facility not functioning properly due to the outbreak. At least not in this area. 

I attempt to keep my feet out of a few questionable puddles filling holes in the cement while I follow behind Quinlan, arms tucked in across my chest. The lights are on in the building we stand at the back entrance of. Graffiti covers the brick walls, and I wonder what sort of restaurant this is. If it's any good. Thinking about it reminds me that I haven't eaten since this morning, when I had just a simple bowl of cereal. 

I try not to think too much about it and look at Quinlan as he surveys the area. "Are you waiting for someone?" 

He glances at me over his shoulder, his hood concealing half of his face. "Yes." 

"Who?" 

Quinlan doesn't respond as he steps up to the door of the restaurant. I take a step behind him to see in too and notice two people standing in an embrace, faces very close as they kiss. I look away, feeling a little awkward watching strangers be intimate. 

"Augustin Elizalde!" Quinlan announces. 

The girl jumps away from the guy, and he looks at Quinlan, but he doesn't seem entirely shocked or horrified that he's here. 

"We need to talk." 

The guy reassures the girl, saying, "It's okay," before stepping outside and standing a decent distance away from Quinlan. He lowers his hood. I stay just slightly behind him and to the side, enough to see the guy. "What do you want?" He has a gun in his hand, not pointing at anything, but he's prepared. For whatever good it'll do against Quinlan. 

"Are you frightened, Gus?" Quinlan asks, glancing pointedly at the handgun. 

Now that I see him clearly, he looks familiar. His face... I've seen it somewhere before. Not too long ago. The features, when I place them in certain places, connect with memories. Stoneheart. The penthouse. 

"I'm smart,” Gus replies. “Smart enough to be careful." 

"Smart enough to be one of the few to walk out of Stoneheart alive." 

"You left Vaun there to die." I spit out the words before I can stop them, venomous and accusing. 

Gus, narrows his eyes, not understanding my outburst. He didn't see me there in Stoneheart. "Look, I don't care who you are, where you're from or what you're selling, but if you don't get away from here, I'm gonna put a bullet in your head." He lifts the gun and aims it at Quinlan. 

He doesn't even blink. "If you were going to shoot me, you would have done so already." Faster than I can track with my eyes, Quinlan moves forward and rips the gun from Gus's hand and pins him to the door by his neck in one single smooth movement.

You startle at the action at the same moment a whimper comes from beyond the door. The girl is standing there watching. "It's okay, baby! It's okay!" Gus consoles her, waving her back from the door while the other hand pulls at Quinlan’s grip.

An odd growling sound comes from Quinlan, almost similar to the beginnings of a roar from a wild cat. "Shall we invite her to join us?" It sounds like a threat. Is he going to hurt people tonight? Why am I even here? 

Gus sneers slightly. His eyes fall to me over Quinlan's shoulder. "Looks like you have a lady of your own to protect." He winks tauntingly at me. "You two a power couple or something?"

Quinlan glances at me, his eyes roving over me as if searching for something before finally releasing Gus and stepping away. "She's an associate of mine." 

"An associate," Gus repeats condescendingly, as if he doesn't entirely believe him. He rubs at his throat. "She looks a little inexperienced...to be playing with the monsters."

"Don't you worry about that," I snap. "I'm handling myself just fine."

"Clearly." He offers an amused smile, eyebrows raised as he looks from me to Quinlan. He's insinuating something, and I'm too timid to look further into what it might be. 

Quinlan, unfazed, continues with business. "Vaun trained you. Did he ever mention who trained him?" I look up at him, brow furrowed. Vaun was trained by him? He never mentioned Quinlan. Then again, the topic of friends and family never exactly came up while in the bunker. 

"Nah, he didn't mention a thing." 

"A good soldier, but he underestimated the Master. If it weren't for her he would be dead with the rest of his squad." He gestures to me. 

Gus's brows shoot up. "Seriously? She saved Vaun?" He looks genuinely impressed. "How did you get to him in time? He and his buddies were sizzling to a crisp when I left." 

I don't need the reminder. "When you ran off and abandoned them, you mean." I uncross my arms and put my hands in my pockets instead, feeling suddenly jittery. Personal confrontations always seem to make me restless. "I was there the whole time." 

He frowns then. "How? We searched the room."

"Not well enough. I was in the corner near an access panel." 

Gus whistles. "Look at little miss trickster here." He tilts his head. "Why were you in Stoneheart though? Especially in Palmer's office?" 

I don't know if I should tell him or not. My connections to Uncle Eldritch seem to be a hot topic at the moment. I’m not sure if announcing my relation to him to every person I interact with is a good idea. "I had business there," I lie. "I hid when I heard there was trouble." 

I don't know if he believes me or not, but it hardly matters. I'm not even sure if Vaun is still alive now anyway. Sure, Quinlan said he’s fine, but until I see him for myself a thread of doubt will remain. 

"Who is this guy, anyway?" His gestures at your companion. 

"My name is Quinlan." 

"Well, hi, Quinlan. Like I was saying, I don't work for those fools anymore." 

"The Ancients?" An amused smile curves at Quinlan's lips, and I'm transfixed by it for a moment. "Fools they are indeed. I don't work for them either. I'm just using them to get what I want." Isn't that, like, treason, in a way? I don't say so out loud, but it sounds like Quinlan is planning to abuse the Ancients' power. Granted, I'm not entirely opposed to him doing what is necessary to kill the Master, but it seems a little sketchy to be so... deceitful. Who's to say he won't do the same to Fet, the professor, and the others? Who's to say he isn't using me right now for something similarly collusive? 

"Which is?" Gus presses. 

"The Master." 

"Oh. Oh, cool." Gus salutes Quinlan half-heartedly. "Well, best of luck to you. No, seriously, Godspeed." He holds out his hand. "Give me my gun back." 

"His shadow looms over you. You crossed him and he does not forget. What has it cost you thus far? Your best friend? Your mother? Do you not see a pattern?" We all look at the door where the girl still stands, watching the exchange warily. "She's very beautiful. Beauty and love are fleeting but powerful. I've known both. I've lost both." Strangely, his eyes slide to me for just the beat of a second. "You can save her, Gus, but the only way is to give her up...until we slay the Master, that is." 

Gus shakes his head. "I don't get it, man. Why? Why me? Why  me ?" 

"That is a question I learned to stop asking myself many centuries ago." 

Gus runs a hand over his face before dropping it at his side, appearing to come to a conclusion. "What do you need me to do?" 

"I'll contact you when the time comes." Quinlan flips the gun still in his hand and returns it handle-first to Gus. 

"Sure," Gus agrees, slipping the firearm into his waistband. 

"Come," Quinlan tells me quietly before turning to leave the alley, pulling his hood up on the way. With no other choice unless I want to be left behind, I follow after him. I'm beginning to feel like a damn lackey. 


	17. Chapter 17

"Where are we going now?" 

After getting into a car with Quinlan and staying quiet for a while during the ride, I'm beginning to feel lost again, still unable to pinpoint precisely why I'm even here. 

"Somewhere you've been before," he answers. 

"Can I please get a straight answer for once? Not some cryptic response." 

He casts a glance at me from his seat next to me. "I'm returning you to the Ancients." 

My spine stiffens. "Why?" 

"There's something you need to see." 

Again, cryptic. But I don't push it. 

The ride grows silent once more, the hiss and thrum of the wheels on asphalt and the engine running fills the car. I rest my head on the headrest, eyes watching the lights and buildings speed by. 

The constant quiet is making me anxious. I have so many questions, and I wonder if asking any of them will put me on Quinlan's bad side. He hasn't posed any sort of direct threat to me, not to mention he evidently needs my help. I believe I'm entitled to a few answers. I suppose I should start with the easiest ones. 

"So," I begin, slowly, "where did you come from? How'd you get here with the quarantine?" If Quinlan were here from the very beginning and worked with Vaun and the other Sun Hunters, I imagine this fight would have been drastically shortened, with victory on our side. 

"I flew here." At my raised eyebrows he sighs, a tiny amused smile lifting at the corner of his mouth. "On a plane. I landed in New Jersey." 

"And here I was thinking what a twist flying vampires would make." 

"It would certainly make the situation much more difficult to control." 

Simply imagining how much more damage and chaos the strigoi could cause if they had that sort of capability sends a shudder down my body. The whole city might be razed to the ground by now. It poses a new question, though, one I haven't thought of before. 

"The Master's plan is to subjugate and control the city, right?" I continue when his eyes slide to mine, letting me know I have his attention. "Then what? I can't imagine someone like him just stopping there." 

Quinlan absorbs my words. "Perceptive of you to notice." He clasps his hands between his knees. "You're not wrong, the Master plans to expand his disease beyond New York." 

"How do you know for sure?" 

"Creatures like him don't stop until they are stopped. It has happened many times throughout history." 

"But not like this..." 

"No," he agrees, "not like this. But I intend for this to be the first and last time." 

"Before, at the factory, you said you could feel him. But you're not controlled by him the way the others are." There's an obvious difference; Quinlan possesses an autonomy that other strigoi don't. A possible reason for that quickly surfaces in my brain. "Is it because you're born?" 

He nods. "I'm impressed by how quickly you catch on. If what I was told is true, you just recently became aware of the circumstances involved with the plague." 

"Ah, yeah." I adjust my seatbelt so it doesn't rub at my neck, suddenly self-conscious. "Guess my uncle decided sheltering me from literally everything going on was a good idea. All I knew was that there was a dangerous sickness going around." My fingers pluck at the belt. "I didn't even have access to the news. Or a decent internet connection. I was basically confined to my bedroom." 

Quinlan's eyes narrow in thought. "Clearly he wanted to keep you ignorant."

"Exactly!" I exclaim. "I just don't know why. I figured it's just because we're family and I happened to be living not too far away." 

"The Master himself mentioned bringing you back to Palmer. It isn't something to take lightly." 

I look at him then, and something in his expression unsettles me. "He won't come after me, will he? I'm not worth anything—" 

"Your uncle seems to believe otherwise." 

"But what does that mean? Are any and all strigoi connected to the Master going to come after me?" 

"I'm not entirely sure. But for now, staying in the Ancients' bunker is what is safest for you." 

"If you say so..." Really, I'd prefer not to be secluded there again. What choice do I have, though? My other option is returning to Fet and the others, but if push came to shove, I doubt they'd put the safety of Palmer's niece over each other. I'm still a stranger among them, after all. Who's to say they wouldn't just use me as a means to their own ends and throw me back to Uncle Eldritch when I was no longer useful? That doesn't seem entirely fair to assume of them, but as it is, I'm essentially alone in this. 

Everyone seems to want my help, but what good will it really do in the end?

*******

Somehow I've made it back to the room Vaun brought me to a few days ago. It feels like so much longer has passed. 

Another Sun Hunter—Lar, he said his name was—led me to the hallway, but that was as far as he took me. It was mostly chance that got me to the correct room, but I'm not sure it matters too much since there's nothing in there to signify it as my own. The only notable trait is the Roman numeral VII. 

I stand before the door, wondering belatedly if I need a key to get in. Vaun used one last time. A twist of the handle, and it opens with ease. Guess not. 

The room appears the exact same as the last time I was in here. With one undeniable exception. 

My duffle bag lies on the bed, packed to fullness and zipped up tight. A smile of disbelief pulls at my cheeks, and I step into the room to inspect its contents. I pull the zipper all the way and spread the bag open. A stretch of fabric rests at the top, folded neatly. I pull it out and let it unfurl into its rightful shape. A coat. Not just any coat,  my coat: a dark brown utility jacket made of some tough and thick material that is lighter than it looks; a wide hood is attached, and it sports several pockets, most of them on the inside. It was forgotten at my apartment. I left quite a few articles of clothing behind there when Uncle Eldritch invited me to stay at Stoneheart since I didn't think I'd be spending so much time away anyway. It wasn't exactly in my top list of things to collect but I have to admit I'm thrilled to have it again. I place it on the end of the bed and peek back into the bag. A pair of boots, the most heavy-duty shoes I own catch my eye. They were one of the first things I'd placed in the bag while at my apartment. A thick pile of clothes takes up nearly half of the massive bag; several shirts and pairs of pants, undergarments (my eye twitches slightly at the thought of anyone going through my underwear drawer picking out panties and bras), socks. Even my charger is in the bag, coiled and orderly. The incredibly plush and soft fleece blanket I rolled in there is squished to the side among the clothes as well. Upon further inspection as I shuffle through, I find my toothbrush, comb, and razor in the side pockets. Everything I left behind in the rush to escape my apartment complex. 

_How did it get  here?_

I pull my phone from my pocket and plug it into the charger. There are functioning outlets in here, who knew? 

There's only two people who knew I left behind my things. Dutch wouldn't have risked going back, and even if she had, how could she have brought it here? She doesn't even know of this place; I'm not even sure she knows of the other Ancients. That leaves Vaun... And if he took the chance to retrieve my stuff, that means he had the clear opportunity to do so, which also means for it to have gotten here—

"Still in one piece, I see." 

My mind wants me to whip around faster than I'm capable, but my body moves slowly, gradually turning to stare at the door. 

Vaun stands in the doorway, looking very much the same as when I left him: austere, purposeful, and very much alive. 

Something both shatters and solidifies within me, and I'm released from my stupor. I'm colliding with him before I can manage another breath. He's so warm and solid and  here and a smile that I can't help wavers on my lips. My face presses into his chest while my entire body trembles, blinking back the tears pressing insistently at my eyes. Vaun just stands there, not moving away, just breathing. That's all I need. It's enough. 

A light crackling sound in his chest settles into a sort of purring, soft and calming to the ear. I think I would stay like this all night if I didn't believe he was even slightly uncomfortable. A small sigh heaves from my mouth as I begin to pull away when a gloved hand touches the back of my head, not pushing or pulling, just resting there. The shock of him touching me back is a little startling and unexpected, but not unwelcome. Fingers thread lightly through my hair, which came loose from its braid long ago, and I risk a glance at his face. His eyes are closed, but his expression is more peaceful and at ease than I've ever seen it while his chest continues to gently thrum. 

Too content to pull away at this point, I rest my head back against his chest. We stand like this for an amount of time I can't specify. He's so warm it's as if I'm embraced by the sun's rays; ironic, considering Vaun can't feel the sunlight directly for himself. But it's fitting. He exudes warmth when he's had to stay in the cold darkness for so long. 

"How did you get out?" I ask it now only because we can't remain this way—embraced in a doorway—forever, though it wouldn't have hurt for a little bit longer. 

Vaun's chest moves under my cheek as he inhales deeply, then releases a sigh. I reluctantly detach myself from his arms and take a step back; his warmth doesn't cling to me as long as I would have liked it to, and I'm reminded how chilly it is down here. Now that we can see each other face-to-face, I realize mine feels rather hot. 

"The door that was shoved off of its hinges made for a sturdy shield." A small smile curls at his lips. "It was mostly depending on brute strength from there." 

I move into the room enough for him to step in and shut the door behind him. "There were so many though. And before I left you were overwhelmed by them. I couldn't see you at all." I look down at my hands wringing together. I stop and push them into my pockets. "I didn't know if you could survive something like that." I didn't want to blatantly mention that I briefly believed he'd died. Even with him here standing in front of me whole and unharmed the fear still resides inside of me, draining slowly like a crack in a glass. 

"I've been through much worse," he says, and I believe him, though it doesn't immediately disperse the feelings of worry. "Living for several centuries has given me a wide array of near-death experiences." 

"Let's try to keep that number relatively low for now on?" I suggest with a weak smile. Turning to the bed, I return to my open duffle bag. "Thank you for this, by the way. I was getting a little tired of wearing random clothes that I could manage to find at Fet's." 

"I couldn't just leave without retrieving what we went there for to begin with." 

I lower my head and pull out a sweater from the bag. "You could've if it meant ensuring your own safety." 

"You don't need to worry about my safety," he says. 

"Yes I do." I drop the shirt and look at him over my shoulder, throat suddenly tight. "You could have died because—what? I just  needed clean socks?" 

Vaun sighs, stepping up beside me. "What happened was beyond your control. It wasn't your fault." 

"But it was selfish." I brush the back of my hand against my itchy nose. "You said it wasn't a good idea." I shake my head in mounting frustration, pushing fingers through my hair. "Why aren't you pissed at me? Why do you even want to see me?" He looks at me strangely and I laugh lightly. "I'm sorry, Vaun. Everything that's happened, that  is happening, it's a lot." A scoff escapes. "God, now I'm making excuses..." 

"Why are you so upset?" He wonders, far more patient than I deserve. 

"Because I'm useless!" I drop onto the edge of the bed and place my head in my hands. "Everyone wants my help and I can’t seem to give it to them since I only make things more difficult." 

"You're the only one who believes that." His voice sounds closer, and when I raise my head he's kneeling in front of me. He's pushed back his hood and meets my eyes directly. "It's true you're out of your depth, but that can be said for just about everyone dealing with this crisis. It isn't something humans were meant to endure, but here you are, fighting. And you're going to win." Vaun rests a hand on my knee, a warm comforting weight. "Because you aren't alone." 

A shaky sigh is released, and I nod, not wanting to risk speaking in fear that something other than words might come out. 

"Are you going to be alright?" He asks. 

I sniffle a little. "Yeah, eventually." A few articles of clothing lie rumpled across the bed and I pick up the shirt I dropped. "Can I shower or something? I think having one would make me feel a little more like myself." 

Vaun stands. “Of course.” 

I gather up the clothes I need until they’re piled in my arms. I grab several other necessities and stack them on the clothes before turning to Vaun. “Ready.” 

*******

Vaun leads me right down the hall and stops at a closed door that looks just like the bedroom doors only instead of a Roman numeral it has an embossed symbol of a shower head with lines indicating water spraying out. 

I glance at Vaun. “In here?” 

He nods. “Everything you’ll need should be in there.” 

“Okay.” I push open the door and step in. It swings closed behind me. The floor is tile, and I follow it until the room opens into a large area a lot like a gym locker room. The wall ahead holds dozens of empty cubbies. On each side is a space to walk further back into the room, and on the wall opposite of the cubbies are shelves holding various bottles of shampoo and conditioner; fresh bars of soap and containers of liquid body wash that look used. Below the shelves are cupboards that house towels. I take two of them and toss them on top of everything else in my arms. To my right is another door that I discover, when I peek in, has the toilets. To my left, I find what I need. There are several shower cubicles lined up (thankfully with their own doors instead of curtains). 

Two benches rest in front of the showers, and that is where I place my things. I hang the towels over a random shower door before collecting a bottle of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. I place them all inside the cubicle and step back out before undressing. My dirty clothes are folded into a separate pile. I grab my razorand reach into the shower to twist the water on. The pipes make a few coughing noises before releasing frigid water in a weak hissing spray. I flinch and hold my hand beneath the water until it warms up enough for me not to immediately breakout into goosebumps just by being near it. 

I carefully step in and close the door behind me. The moment I feel the warmth slide over my skin, I feel myself begin to relax. The water is a couple degrees hotter than lukewarm at best, and it takes a while to get my hair entirely wet with the weak pressure (even longer to get out the shampoo) but by the time I’ve finished—shaving and all—I feel rejuvenated.

One of the towels gets twisted around my hair while the other scrubs my skin to dryness. I keep it wound around my body while I pull on my underwear. I wish I had some lotion; the cold has always had a way of drying out my skin. I take off the towel and clasp my bra on. Once I have the rest of my clothes on, I feel so much better. While I’m not one to enjoy showering amongst others, the emptiness of the room is a little eerie. There’s still a chill in the air that seems to permeate the entire compound, and it’s only when I pull on my fluffy socks and tie my boots that I feel more normal. Well, as normal as I can be in the lair of ancient vampire royalty. 

I fold both towels and leave them on the bench for when I return to shower again. I gather my dirty clothes and return the way I came in. Vaun isn’t around when I leave the bathroom, so I walk back to my room on my own. Inside, I place my dirty clothes in a corner until they can be washed. 

I pull on my jacket and find my comb before sitting on the bed, methodically brushing my hair starting from the bottom and gradually making longer strokes until there aren’t any tangles. Since there doesn’t seem to be any sort of hairdryer, and considering how chilly it is, I place my hair atop my head in a loose bun so it’s out of my face. 

My duffle bag is tossed to the floor and I lie down on my side, tucking an arm beneath my head. All too quickly my eyes grow heavy. A drowsiness I’ve been putting off for a while pulls at me, sucking me in until I submit. I figure if Vaun needs me he’ll come by again and wake me up. Freshly showered and wrapped in my thick jacket, I settle into a light sleep.


End file.
